SONGS   OF  THE   SEA, 


OTHER    POEMS. 


SONGS    OF    THE    SEA, 


OTHER     POEMS, 


EPES    SARGENT. 


SECONP, 


Boston : 

WILLIAM  D.  TICKNOR  &  COMPANY. 

MDCCCXLIX. 


Entered  according  to  act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1847,  by 

JAMES  MUNROK  AND  COMPANY, 
in  the  Clerk's  office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


PREFACE. 


SEVERAL  of  the  following  poems,  and  among 
them  the  ballad  of  "  Adelaide's  Triumph."  are 
now -for  the  first  time  published.  Others  have 
appeared  in  different  periodicals,  with  which  the 
writer  has  been  connected  during  the  last  ten 
years,  and  have  met  with  a  kind  reception  from 
the  public.  How  far  any  of  them  may  be 
deemed  worthy  of  preservation,  will  be  solved, 
probably,  by  the  fate  of  this  edition,  which  has 
been  carefully  revised,  and  contains  the  first 
and  only  complete  and  authorized  collection  of 
the  writer's  poetical  pieces. 


M167381 


CONTENTS. 


SONGS   OF  THE   SEA. 

PAGE. 

THE  LIGHT  OF    THE  LIGHTHOUSE, 11 

SHELLS  AND  SEAWEEDS, 23 

I.  The  Departure.  —  II.  The  Awakening.  —  III.  The 
Gale.  —  IV.  Morning  after  the  Gale.  —  V.  To  a 
Land-Bird.  —  VI.  A  Thought  of  the  Past.  —  VII. 
Tropical  Weather.  —  VIII.  A  Calm.  — IX.  A  Wish. 

—  X.    Tropical    Night.  —  XL    The    Planet    Jupiter. 

—  XII.    ToEgeria.  —  XIII.    Cuba.  — XIV.   The  Sea- 
Breeze    at    Matanzas.  —  XV.    Midsummer    Rains.  — 
XVI.    Weighing  Anchor. 

THE  MISSING  SHIP, 39 

ROCKALL, 44 

THE  HURRICANE'S  AMBUSCADE, 47 

A  LIFE  ON  THE  OCEAN  WAVE, 50 

MIDSUMMER  IN  THE  CITY, 52 

Music  ON  THE  WATERS, 55 

THE  NIGHT-STORM  AT  SEA, 57 

SUMMER  NOON  AT  SEA, 60 

FORGET  ME  NOT,  .  ..62 


8  CONTENTS. 

MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

PAGE. 
GONELLO, 67 

THE  MARTYR  OF  THE  ARENA, 78 

WoODHULL, 83 

THE  LAST  OF  HIS  TRIBE, 86 

THE  DEATH  OF  WARREN, 89 

ODE  FOR  WASHINGTON'S  BIRTHDAY, 91 

THE  DAYS  THAT  ARE  PAST, 93 

THE  GAY  DECEIVER, 95 

FLORETTE,    97 

THE  SPRING-TIME  WILL  RETURN, 99 

THE  FOUNTAIN  IN  THE  CITY, 101 

THE  CAPTIVE, 102 

FANTASY  AND  FACT, , 104 

A  MORNING  INVOCATION, 107 

THE  FUGITIVE  FROM  LOVE, 109 

WHEN  THE  NIGHT-WIND    BEWAILETH, Ill 

To  A  SINGING  BIRD, 113 

THE  FIRST   SNOW-STORM, 116 

SUMMER  IN  THE  HEART, 119 

THE  CONQUEROR, 121 

ADELAIDE'S  TRIUMPH, 123 

THE  DRAMA'S  RACE, 147 

FAREWELL  ADDRESS,,. 153 

DRAMATIC   PIECES. 

THE  CANDID  CRITIC, 159 

THE  LAMPOON,  195 

NOTES. 


SONGS    OF    THE    SEA. 


SONGS 


OF 


THE      SEA 


THE   LIGHT   OF   THE   LIGHTHOUSE 


I. 

THE  closing  of  a  day  in  June, 

Mild,  beautiful,  and  bright ! 
The  setting  sun,  the  crescent  moon, 

Mingling  their  doubtful  light ! 
The  west  wind  brings  the  odor  sweet 

Of  flowers  and  new-mown  hay ; 
While  murmuring  billows  at  our  feet 

Breathe  of  the  salt  sea  spray. 


12          THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  LIGHTHOUSE. 


II. 

We  stroll  along  the  wide  sea-beach, 

A  ladye  faire  and  I, 
And  con  what  Nature's  page  may  teach 

In  ocean,  earth,  and  sky. 
And,  as  across  the  waters  blue, 

With  roving  glance  we  gaze, 
A  light  springs  suddenly  to  view  — 

It  is  a  beacon's  blaze ! 


III. 

O,  lambently  the  new-born  flame 

Disparts  the  purple  air; 
In  childlike  wonder  we  exclaim, 

To  see  a  sight  so  fair. 
"  How  bright,"  the  ladye  saith,  "  its  ray 

Shoots  o'er  the  tranquil  tide! 
Now  listen  to  the  tale,  I  pray, 

With  yonder  shaft  allied. 


THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  LIGHTHOUSE.          13 

IV. 

"Upon  that  island's  narrow  ledge 

Of  rocks  with  sea-weed  strown, 
Fringed  by  the  thinly-scattered  sedge, 

The  lighthouse  towers  alone. 
There,  'mid  the  sea's  perpetual  swell, 

The  dash  of  breakers  wild, 
Two  solitary  beings  dwell  — 

A  father  and  his  child  ! 

V. 

"  Three  years  ago,  no  friendly  light 

Across  the  dark  reef  beamed ; 
A  white  flag  on  the  rocky  height, 

The  only  signal,  streamed. 
Poor  Francis  Lome  had  then  a  wife, 

And  he  had  children  five; 
He  led  a  fisherman's  bold  life, 

And  merrily  did  he  thrive. 


14          THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  LIGHTHOUSE. 

VI. 

"  It  was  on  Independence  Day, 

To  Mary  Lome  he  said, 
'  My  sloop  is  rocking  in  the  bay, 

Our  flag  at  her  mast-head. 
Come,  gentle  wife,  your  work  throw  down, 

And,  children,  come  with  me ; 
And  we'll  all  take  a  trip  to  town, 

This  day's  great  sights  to  see. 

VII. 

"'On  board!  on  board!     Fair  blows  the  gale; 

My  boat  is  swift  and  strong; 
With  streamers  gay  and  loosened  sail, 

How  will  she  sweep  along ! 
The  sky  is  clear  and  beautiful, 

Bright  gleams  the  breezy  morn  ; 
We'll  skim  the  blue  waves  like  a  gull ! 

We  will ! '  said  Francis  Lome. 


THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  LIGHTHOUSE.          15 

VIII. 

"  O,  joyful  heart,  exult  not  so  ! 

Mistrust  that  prospect  fair; 
It  is  the  lure  of  death  and  woe, 

The  ambush  of  despair ! 
That  night  the  storm,  in  wild  array, 

Clove  through  the  billows  dark, 
And,  in  a  cloud  of  foam  and  spray, 

Rushed  on  the  fated  bark. 

IX. 

"  The  morning's  dim,  unconscious  smile, 

That  hushed  the  raging  blast, 
Disclosed  upon  that  rock-bound  isle 

Two  forms  the  surge  had  cast. 
There,  folded  to  the  father's  breast, 

His  youngest  daughter  lay  ; 
They  are  but  two  —  where  be  the  rest? 

Ye  ruthless  billows,  say ! 


16          THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  LIGHTHOUSE. 


X. 

"  Alas  for  him !     From  death-like  sleep, 

When  memory  was  recalled, 
He  could  not  groan  —  he  could  not  weep  • 

His  reason  was  appalled ! 
A  grief,  that  blanched  his  sun-burnt  face, 

Thenceforth  upon  him  grew  — 
A  grief  that  time  could  not  erase, 

And  hope  could  not  subdue. 

XI. 

"  And  when,  at  length,  on  yonder  spot, 

Was  reared  the  lighthouse  spire, 
To  him  was  given  the  lonely  lot 

To  tend  the  beacon  fire. 
There,  from  the  busy  world  apart, 

Its  clamor  and  its  care, 
He  lives,  with  but  one  human  heart 

His  solitude  to  share. 


THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  LIGHTHOUSE.         17 

XII. 

'•  But  O,  Aurora's  crimson  light, 

That  makes  the  watch-fire  dim, 
Is  not  a  more  transporting  sight 

Than  Ellen  is  to  him! 
He  pineth  not  for  fields  and  brooks, 

Wild-flowers  and  singing  birds, 
For  Summer  smileth  in  her  looks, 

And  singeth  in  her  words. 

XIII. 

"  A  fairy  thing,  not  five  years  old, 

So  full  of  joy  and  grace, 
It  is  a  rapture  to  behold 

The  beauty  of  her  face ! 
And  O,  to  hear  her  happy  voice, 

Her  laughter  ringing  free, 
Would  make  the  gloomiest  heart  rejoice, 

And  turn  despair  to  glee! 
2 


18         THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  LIGHTHOUSE. 


XIV. 

"  The  ocean's  blue  is  in  her  eyes, 

Its  coral  in  her  lips; 
And,  in  her  cheek,  the  mingled  dyes, 

No  sea-shell  could  eclipse ! 
And,  as  she  climbs  the  weedy  rocks, 

And  in  the  sunshine  plays, 
The  wind  that  lifts  her  golden  locks 

Seems  more  to  love  their  rays. 

XV. 

"When  the  smoothed  ocean  sleeps  unstirred, 

And,  like  a  silver  band, 
The  molten  waters  circling  gird 

The  island's  rim  of  sand, 
She  runs  her  tiny  feet  to  lave. 

And  breaks  the  liquid  chain; 
Then  laughs  to  feel  the  shivered  wave 

Coil  down  to  rest  again. 


THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  LIGHTHOUSE.          19 

XVI. 

"And,  when  the  black  squall  rends  the  deep, 

The  tempest-cradled  maid, 
To  see  the  white  gulls  o'er  her  sweep, 

Mounts  to  the  balustrade : 
Above  her  head  and  round  about, 

They  stoop  without  alarm, 
And  seem  to  flout  her  threatening  shout, 

And  her  up-stretching  arm. 

XVII. 

"  Once,  Francis  sought  the  neighboring  town, 

And  she  was  left  alone; 
When  such  a  furious  storm  came  down 

As  never  had  been  known. 
'  My  child ! '  the  wretched  parent  cried ; 

'  O  friends,  withhold  me  not ! 
The  bravest  man,  in  such  a  tide, 

Would  quail  on  that  bleak  spot.' 


20  THE    LIGHT    OF   THE   LIGHTHOUSE. 

XVIII. 

"  He  strove,  till  faint  and  out  of  breath, 

His  fragile  boat  to  gain; 
But  all  knew  it  was  certain  death 

To  tempt  the  hurricane : 
And  wilder  grew  the  tempest's  power, 

And  doubly  black  the  night, 
When,  lo!  at  the  appointed  hour, 

Blazed  forth  that  beacon-light ! 

XIX. 

"The  sea-fog,  like  a  fallen  cloud, 

Rolled  in  and  dimmed  its  fire; 
Roared  the  gale  louder  and  more  loud, 

And  sprang  the  billows  higher ! 
Above  the  gale  that  wailed  and  rang,  — 

Above  the  booming  swell, 
With  steady  and  sonorous  clang, 

Pealed  forth  the  lighthouse  bell! 


THE  LIGHT  OP  THE  LIGHTHOUSE.         21 

XX. 

"Warned  by  the  sound,  ships  inward  bound 

Again  the  offing  tried; 
And  soon  the  baffled  Tempest  found 

His  anger  was  defied : 
The  billows  fell,  the  winds,  rebuked, 

Crept  to  their  caverns  back; 
And  placidly  the  day-star  looked 

Out  from  the  cloudy  rack. 

XXI. 

"Bright  through  the  window-panes  it  smiled 

Upon  the  little  bed, 
Where,  wrapped  in  slumber  deep  and  mild, 

Ellen  reposed  her  head. 
Her  friends,  her  father  seek  the  place; 

Good  saints  have  watched  her  charms ! 
Her  blue  eyes  open  on  his  face, 

And  she  is  in  his  arms ! " 


22         THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  LIGHTHOUSE. 

XXII. 

The  voice  was  mute,  the  tale  was  told ; 

Sacred  be  my  reply! 
Along  the  wide  sea-beach  we  strolled, 

That  ladye  faire  and  I. 
Blessed,  ever  blessed  and  unforgot, 

Be  that  sweet  summer  night! 
And  blessings  on  that  wave-girt  spot, 

The  lighthouse  and  the  light ! 


SHELLS  AND  SEAWEEDS. 

RECORDS  OF  A  SUMMER  VOYAGE  TO  CUBA. 

I. 

THE   DEPARTURE. 
AGAIN  thy  winds  are  pealing  in  mine  ear ; 

Again  thy  waves  are  flashing  in  my  sight ; 
Thy  memory-haunting  tones  again  I  hear, 

As  through  the  spray  our  vessel  wings   her  flight. 
On  thy  cerulean  breast,  now  swelling  high, 

Again,  thou  broad  Atlantic,  am  I  cast. 
Six  years,  with  gathering  speed,  have  glided  by, 

Since,  an  adventurous  boy,  I  hailed  thee  last. 
The  sea-birds  o'er  me  wheel,  as  if  to  greet 

An  old  companion;  on  my  naked  brow 
The  sparkling  foam-drops  not  unkindly  beat; 

Flows  thro'  my  hair  the  freshening  breeze  :  and  now 
The  horizon's  ring  enclasps  me ;  and  I  stand 
Gazing  where  fades  from  view,  cloud-like,  my  father 
land. 


24  SHELLS   AND    SEAWEEDS. 


II. 


THE   AWAKENING. 

How  changed  the  scene !     Our  parting  gaze,  last  night, 

Was  on  the  three-hilled  city's  swelling  dome,  — 
The  dome  o'erlooking  from  its  stately  height 

Full  many  a  sacred  spire  and  happy  home. 
Rose  over  all,  clouding  the  azure  air, 

A  canopy  of  smoke,  swart  Labor's  sign; 
While  like  a  forest  Winter  has  stripped  bare, 

Bristled  the  masts  along  the  water's  line. 
But  now  the  unbroken  ocean  and  the  sky 

Seem  to  enclose  us  in  a  crystal  sphere ; 
A  new  creation  fills  the  straining  eye; 

No  bark  save  ours  —  no  human  trace  is  here ! 
But,  in  the  brightening  east,  a  crimson  haze 
Floats  up  before  the  sun,  his  incense  fresh  of  praise. 


A    SUMMER   VOYAGE    TO    CUBA  25 

III. 
THE   GALE. 

The  night  came  robed  in  terror.     Through  the  air 

Mountains  of  clouds,  with  lurid  summits,  rolled,  — 
The  lightning  kindling  with  its  vivid  glare 

Their  outlines,  as  they  rose  heaped  fold  on  fold. 
The  wind,  in  fitful  soughs,  swept  o'er  the  sea; 

And  then  a  sudden  lull,  serene  as  sleep, 
Soft  as  an  infant's  breathing,  seemed  to  be 

Cast,  like  enchantment,  on  the  throbbing  deep. 
But  false  the  calm !  for  soon  the  strengthened  gale 

Burst  in  one  loud  explosion,  far  and  wide, 
Drowning  the  thunder's  voice!     With  every  sail 

Close-reefed,  our  groaning  ship  heeled  on  her  side ; 
The  torn  waves  combed  the  deck  j  while,  o'er  the  mast, 
The  meteors  of  the  storm  a  ghastly  radiance  cast. 


26  SHELLS    AND    SEAWEEDS. 

IV. 

MORNING   AFTER  THE   GALE. 

Bravely  our  trim  ship  rode  the  tempest  through ; 

And  when  the  exhausted  gale  had  ceased  to  rave, 
How  broke  the  day-star  on  the  gazer's  view ! 

How  flushed  the  orient  every  crested  wave ! 
The  sun  threw  down  his  shield  of  golden  light 

In  proud  defiance  on  the  ocean's  bed ; 
Whereat  the  clouds  betook  themselves  to  flight, 

Like  routed  hosts,  with  banners  soiled  and  red. 
The  sky  was  soon  all  brilliance,  east  and  west; 

All  traces  of  the  gale  had  passed  away ; 
The  chiming  billows,  by  the  breeze  caressed, 

Shook  lightly  from  their  heads  the  feathery  spray. 
Ah!  thus  may  Hope's  auspicious  star  relume 
The  sorrow-clouded  soul,  and  end  its  hour  of  gloom  ! 


A    SUMMER    VOYAGE    TO    CUBA.  27 

V. 

TO   A   LAND   BIRD. 

Thou  wanderer  from  green  fields  and  leafy  nooks ! 

Where  blooms  the  flower  and  toils  the  honey-bee,  — 
Where  odorous  blossoms  drift  along  the  brooks, 

And  woods  and  hills  are  very  fair  to  see, — 
Why  hast  thou  left  thy  native  bough  to  roam, 

With  drooping  wing,  far  o'er  the  briny  billow? 
Thou  canst  not,  like  the  ospray,  cleave  the  foam, 

Nor  like  the  petrel  make  the  wave  thy  pillow. 
Thou'rt  like  those  fine-toned  spirits,  gentle  bird, 

Which  from  some  better  land  to  this  rude  life 
Seem  borne.     They  struggle,  'mid  the  common  herd, 

With  powers  unfitted  for  the  selfish  strife : 
Haply,  at  length,  some  zephyr  wafts  them  back 
To  their  own  home  of  peace,  across  the  world's  dull 
track. 


28  SHELLS   AND    SEAWEEDS. 


VI. 


A   THOUGHT   OF   THE   PAST. 

I  waked  from  slumber  at  the  dead  of  night, 

Moved  by  a  dream  too  heavenly  fair  to  last  — 
A  dream  of  boyhood's  season  of  delight ; 

It  flashed  along  the  dim  shapes  of  the  past ; 
And,  as  I  mused  upon  its  strange  appeal, 

Thrilling  me  with  emotions  undefined, 
Old  memories,  bursting  from  Time's  icy  seal, 

Rushed,  like  sun-stricken  fountains,  on  my  mind. 
Scenes  where  my  lot  was  cast  in  life's  young  day ; 

My  favorite  haunts,  the  shores,  the  ancient  woods, 
Where,  with  my  schoolmates,  I  was  wont  to  stray; 

Green,  sloping  lawns,  majestic  solitudes  — 
All  rose  to  view,  more  beautiful  than  then ;  — 
They  faded,  and  I  wept  —  a  child  indeed  again ! 


A   SUMMER    VOYAGE    TO    CUBA.  29 

VII. 

TROPICAL   WEATHER. 

Now  we're  afloat  upon  the  tropic  sea: 

Here  Summer  holdeth  a  perpetual  reign. 
How  flash  the  waters  in  their  bounding  glee ! 

The  sky's  soft  purple  is  without  a  stain. 
Full   in   our   wake  the   smooth,  warm   trade-winds, 
blowing, 

To  their  unvarying  goal  still  faithful  run ; 
And,  as  we  steer,  with  sails  before  them  flowing, 

Nearer  the  zenith  daily  climbs  the  sun. 
The  startled  flying-fish  around  us  skim, 

Glossed  like  the  humming-bird,  with  rainbow  dyes ; 
And,  as  they  dip  into  the  water's  brim, 

Swift  in  pursuit  the  preying  dolphin  hies. 
All,  all  is  fair;  and  gazing  round,  we  feel 
Over  the  yielding  sense  the  torrid  languor  steal. 


30  SHELLS    AND    SEAWEEDS. 


VIII. 

A   CALM. 

O  for  one  draught  of  cooling  northern  air ! 

That  it  might  pour  its  freshness  on  me  now; 
That  it  might  kiss  my  cheek  and  cleave  my  hair, 

And  part  its  currents  round  my  fevered  brow ! 
Ocean,  and  sky,  and  earth  —  a  blistering  calm 

Spread  over  all !     How  weary  wears  the  day ! 
O,  lift  the  wave,  and  bend  the  distant  palm, 

Breeze !  wheresoe'er  thy  lagging  pinions  stay ! 
Triumphant  burst  upon  the  level  deep, 

Rock  the  fixed  hull  and  stretch  the  clinging  sail ! 
Arouse  the  opal  clouds  that  o'er  us  sleep  ! 

Sound  thy  shrill  whistle !  we  will  bid  thee  hail ! 
Though  wrapped  in  all  the  storm-clouds  of  the  North, 
Yet,  from  thy  home   of  ice,  come   forth,  O   breeze, 
come  forth! 


A    SUMMER   VOYAGE    TO    CUBA.  31 


IX. 


A   WISH. 

That  I  were  in  some  forest's  green  retreat ! 

Beneath  a  towering  arch  of  proud  old  elms ; 
Where  a  clear  streamlet  gurgled  at  my  feet  — 

Its  wavelets  glittering  in  their  tiny  helms ! 
Thick  clustering  vines  in  many  a  rich  festoon 

From  the  high,  rustling  branches  should  depend ; 
Weaving  a  net,  through  which  the  sultry  Noon 

Might  stoop  in  vain  its  fiery  beams  to  send. 
There,  prostrate  on  some  rock's  gray  sloping  side, 

Upon  whose  tinted  moss  the  dew  yet  lay, 
Would  I  catch  glimpses  of  the  clouds  that  ride, 

Athwart  the  sky  —  and  dream  the  hours  away; 
While  through  the  alleys  of  the  sunless  wood 
The    fanning    breeze    might    steal,    with    wild-flowers' 
breath  imbued. 


32  SHELLS    AND    SEAWEEDS. 


X. 


TROPICAL   NIGHT. 

But  O!  the  night  —  the  cool,  luxurious  night, 

Which  closes  round  us  when  the  day  grows  dim, 
And  the  sun  sinks  from  his  meridian  height 

Behind  the  ocean's  occidental  rim ! 
Clouds  in  thin  streaks  of  purple,  green  and  red, 

Lattice  his  dying  glory,  and  absorb  — 
Hung  o'er  his  couch  —  the  rallying  lustre  shed, 

Like  love's  last  tender  glances,  from  his  orb. 
And  now  the  moon,  her  lids  unclosing,  deigns 

To  smile  serenely  on  the  charmed  sea, 
That  shines  as  if  inlaid  with  lightning-chains, 

From  which  it  faintly  struggled  to  be  free. 
Swan-like,  with  motion  unperceived,  we  glide, 
Touched  by  the  downy  breeze,  and  favored  by  the  tide. 


A   SUMMER   VOYAGE    TO    CUBA.  33 

XI. 

THE    PLANET   JUPITER. 

Ever  at  night  have  I  looked  up  for  thee, 

O'er  thy  sidereal  sisterhood  supreme ! 
Ever  at  night  have  scanned  the  purple  sea 

For  the  reflection  of  thy  quivering  ,beam ! 
When  the  white  cloud  thy  diamond  radiance  screened, 

And  the  Bahama  breeze  began  to  wail, 
How  on  the  plunging  bows  for  hours  I've  leaned, 

And  watched  the  gradual  lifting  of  thy  veil ! 
Bright  planet!  lustrous  effluence!  thou  ray 

From  the  Eternal  Source  of  life  and  light ! 
Gleam  on  the  track  where  Truth  shall  lead  the  way, 

And  gild  the  inward  as  the  outward  night! 
Shine  but  as  now  upon  my  dying  eyes, 
And  Hope,  from  earth  to  thee,  from  thee  to  Heaven, 
shall  rise! 
3 


34  SHELLS   AND    SEAWEEDS. 

XII. 

TO   EGERIA. 

The  flying  wave  reflects  thy  angel  face, 

But  soon  the  liquid  mirror  breaks  in  foam; 
The  severing  cloud  reveals  thy  form  of  grace, 

And  then  thou'rt  standing  in  thy  fittest  home; 
A  drifted  vapor  hides  thy  maiden  shape — • 

Ocean  and  sky  are  all  the  gazer  sees; 
But,  while  he  murmurs  at  thy  swift  escape, 

He  starts  to  hear  thy  whisper  in  the  breeze. 
Capricious  phantom !  why  within  my  heart 

Create  the  void  of  beauty  and  of  love  ? 
A  spirit  tells  me,  coy  one,  who  thou  art, — 

Heard  in  the  gale,  or  shadowed  forth  above  — 
The  bright  prefigurement  of  her  who  waits, 
With  snow-white  veil  and  wreath,  beside  the  Future's 
gates ! 


A    SUMMER   VOYAGE    TO    CUBA.  35 


XIII. 

CUBA. 

What  sounds  arouse  me  from  my  slumbers  light? 

"  Land  ho!  all  hands,  ahoy!"  —  I'm  on  the  deck 
Tis  early  dawn:  the  day-star  yet  is  bright; 

A  few  white  vapory  bars  the  zenith  fleck; 
And  lo !  along  the  horizon,  bold  and  high, 

The  purple  hills  of  Cuba !     Hail,  all  hail  ! 
Isle  of  undying  verdure,  with  thy  sky 

Of  purest  azure  !     Welcome,  odorous  gale ! 
O,  scene  of  life  and  joy  !  thou  art  arrayed 

In  hues  of  unimagined  loveliness. 
Sing  louder,  brave  old  mariner  !  and  aid 

My  swelling  heart  its  rapture  to  express; 
For,  from  enchanted  memory,  never  more 
Shall  fade  this    dawn    sublime,  this   fair,  resplendent 
shore. 


36  SHELLS    AND    SEAWEEDS. 

XIV. 

THE    SEA-BREEZE   AT   MATANZAS. 

After  a  night  of  languor  without  rest,  — 

Striving  to  sleep,  yet  wishing  morn  might  come, 
By  the  pent,  scorching  atmosphere  oppressed, 

Impatient  of  the  vile  mosquito's  hum,  — 
With  what  reviving  freshness  from  the  sea, 

Its  airy  plumage  glittering  with  the  spray, 
Comes  the  strong  day-breeze,  rushing  joyously 

Into  the  bright  arms  of  the  encircling  bay ! 
It  tempers  the  keen  ardor  of  the  sun  ; 

The  drooping  frame  with  life  renewed  it  fills; 
It  lashes  the  green  waters  as  they  run ; 

It  sways  the  graceful  palm-tree  on  the  hills ; 
It  breathes  of  ocean  solitudes,  and  caves, 
Luminous,  vast,  and  cool,  far  down  beneath  the  waves. 


A    SUMMER   VOYAGE    TO    CUBA.  37 


XV. 

MIDSUMMER   RAINS. 

The  morning  here,  how  beautiful  and  bright! 

Look  forth,  and  not  a  cloud-flake  may  be  seen ; 
But,  ere  the  sun  has  reached  his  noonday  height, 

Up  from  the  horizon  slides  a  vapory  screen  ; 
And  now  the  firmament  is  all  o'ercast : 

Peals  the  hoarse  thunder  with  stupendous  roar ; 
The  rain,  a  crushing  torrent,  lays  the  blast, 

Foams  on  the  wave,  and  hides  the  adjoining  shore. 
But,  with  a  breath,  it  pauses;  and  a  ray 

Cleaves  the  huge  keystone  of  the  arch  of  gloom ; 
The  shower  attenuates  to  a  filmy  spray, 

Bright  rolls  the  sea  again  —  the  earth  is  bloom; 
And,  while  the  sun  pours  down  a  fiercer  blaze, 
The  moisture  reascends  fast  on  his  flaming  rays. 


38  SHELLS    AND    SEAWEEDS. 


XVI. 

WEIGHING   ANCHOR. 

Like  sweetest  music  are  those  cries  that  tell 

Of  weighing  anchor  ;  —  ay,  we're  homeward  bound  ! 
Ye  orange  groves  and  coffee  walks,  farewell ! 

Farewell,  thou  fire-scooped  summit,  forest-crowned  ! 
Ah,  bright  thy  shores  and  bountiful  thy  fruits, 

Cuba!  and  heaped  with  green  thy  river-banks; 
But  here  the  noontide  Pestilence  recruits 

(Stern  minister!)  Death's  ever-gathering  ranks. 
And  so,  e'en  while  thy  gales  are  breathing  balm, 

And  thy  rich  growth  our  soil  reluctant  mocks, 
O,  give  me  back  the  cedar  for  the  palm! 

The  cedar  on  its  brown  hills,  ribbed  with  rocks! 
'Tis  Freedom's  emblem;  and  on  Freedom's  shore 
It   stands  —  though   rough   without,  all    fragrance   at 
the  core! 


39 


THE    MISSING   SHIP 


1841. 


GOD  speed  the  noble  PRESIDENT  ! 

A  gallant  boat  is  she, 
As  ever  entered  harbor, 

Or  crossed  a  stormy  sea. 
Like  some  majestic  castle 

She  towers  upon  the  stream; 
The  good  ships  moored  beside  her 

Like  pigmy  shallops  seem. 

How  will  her  mighty  bulwarks 
The  leaping  surges  brave ! 

How  will  her  iron  sinews 

Make  way  'gainst  wind  and  wave! 


40  THE    MISSING    SHIP. 

Farewell,  thou  stately  vessel ! 

Ye  voyagers,  farewell ! 
Securely  on  that  deck  shall  ye 

The  tempest's  shock  repel. 

The  stately  vessel  left  us, 

In  all  her  bold  array ;  — 
A  glorious  sight,  O  landsmen, 

As  she  glided  down  our  bay ! 
Her  flags  were  waving  joyfully, 

And  from  her  ribs  of  oak, 
"Farewell!"  to  all  the  city 

Her  guns  in  thunder  spoke. 

Flee,  on  thy  vapory  pinions! 

Back,  back  to  England  flee; 
Where  patient  watchers  by  the  strand 

Have  waited  long  for  thee; 
Where  kindred  hearts  are  beating 

To  welcome  home  thy  crew, 
And  tearful  eyes  gaze  constantly 

Across  the  waters  blue! 


THE    MISSING    SHIP.  41 

Alas,  ye  watchers  by  the  strand, 

Weeks,  months  have  rolled  away, 
But  where,  where  is  the  President? 

And  why  is  this  delay? 
Return,  pale  mourners,  to  your  homes ! 

Ye  gaze,  and  gaze  in  vain ; 
O,  never  shall  that  pennoned  mast 

Salute  your  eyes  again ! 

And  now  your  hopes,  like  morning  stars, 

Have  one  by  one  gone  out; 
And  stern  Despair  subdues  at  length 

The  agony  of  doubt ; 
But  still  Affection  lifts  the  torch 

By  night  along  the  shore, 
And  lingers  by  the  surf-beat  rocks, 

To  marvel,  to  deplore. 

In  dreams,  I  see  the  fated  ship 

Torn  by  the  northern  blast; 
About  her  tempest-riven  track 

The  white  fog  gathers  fast; 


42  THE    MISSING    SHIP. 

When,  lo!  above  the  swathing  mist, 

Their  heads  the  icebergs  lift, 
In  lucent  grandeur  to  the  clouds  — 

Vast  continents  adrift! 

One  mingled  shriek  of  awe  goes  up, 

At  that  stupendous  sight : 
Now,  helmsman,  for  a  hundred  lives, 

O,  guide  the  helm  aright! 
Vain  prayer !  she  strikes !  and,  thundering  down, 

The  avalanches  fall! 
Crushed,  whelmed,  the  stately  vessel  sinks  — 

The  cold  sea  covers  all ! 

Anon,  unresting  Fancy  holds 

A  direr  scene  to  view, — 
The  burning  ship,  the  fragile  raft, 

The  pale  and  dying  crew. 
Ah  me !  was  such  their  maddening  fate 

Upon  the  billowy  brine? 
Give  up,  remorseless  Ocean, 

A  relic  and  a  sign ! 


THE    MISSING    SHIP.  43 

No  answer  cometh  from  the  deep, 

To  tell  the  tale  we  dread; 
No  messenger  of  weal  or  woe 

Returneth  from  the  dead ; 
But  Faith  looks  up  through  tears,  and  sees, 

From  earthly  haven  driven, 
Those  lost  ones  meet  in  fairer  realms, 

Where  storms  reach  not  —  in  Heaven. 


44 


ROCKALL. 


Rockall  is  a  solid  block  of  granite,  growing,  as  it  were,  out 
of  the  sea,  at  a  greater  distance  from  the  main  land, 
probably,  than  any  other  island  or  rock  of  the  same  di 
minutive  size  in  the  world.  It  is  only  seventy  feet  high, 
and  not  more  than  a  hundred  yards  in  circumference.  It 
lies  at  a  distance  of  no  fewer  than  one  hundred  and  eighty- 
four  miles  nearly  due  west  of  St.  Kilda,  the  remotest 
part  of  the  Hebrides,  and  is  two  hundred  and  sixty  miles 
from  the  north  of  Ireland. 


PALE  ocean  rock!  that,  like  a  phantom  shape, 
Or  some  mysterious  spirit's  tenement, 
Risest  amid  this  weltering  waste  of  waves, 
Lonely  and  desolate,  thy  spreading  base 
Is  planted  in  the  sea's  unmeasured  depths, 
Where  rolls  the  huge  leviathan  o'er  sands 
Glistening  with  shipwrecked  treasures.     The  strong 

wind 
Flings  up  thy  sides  a  veil  of  feathery  spray 


ROCKALL.  45 

With  sunbeams  interwoven,  and  the  hues 
Which  mingle  in  the  rainbow.     From  thy  top 
The  sea-birds  rise,  and  sweep  with  sidelong  flight 
Downward  upon  their  prey ;  or,  with  poised  wings, 
Skim  to  the  horizon  o'er  the  glittering  deep. 

Our  bark,  careening  to  the  welcome  breeze, 
With  white  sails  filled  and  streamers  all  afloat, 
Shakes  from  her  dipping  prow  the  foam,  while  we 
Gaze  on  thy  outline  mingling  in  the  void, 
And  draw  our  breath  like  men  who  see,  amazed, 
Some  mighty  pageant  passing.     What  had  been 
Our  fate  last  night,  if,  when  the  aspiring  waves 
Were  toppling  o'er  our  mainmast,  and  the  stars 
Were  shrouded  in  black  vapors,  we  had  struck 
Full  on  thy  sea-bound  pinnacles,  Rockall ! 

But  now  another  prospect  greets  our  sight, 
And  hope  elate  is  rising  with  our  hearts  : 
Intensely  blue,  the  sky's  resplendent  arch 
Bends  over  all  serenely ;  not  a  cloud 
Mars  its  pure  radiance;  not  a  shadow  dims 
The  flashing  billows.     The  refreshing  air 
It  is  a  luxury  to  feel  and  breathe; 


46  ROCKALL. 

The  senses  are  made  keener,  and  drink  in 
The  life,  the  joy,  the  beauty  of  the  scene. 

Repeller  of  the  wild  and  thundering  surge ! 
For  ages  has  the  baffled  tempest  howled 
By  thee  with  all  its  fury,  and  piled  up 
The  massive  waters  like  a  falling  tower 
To  dash  thee  down ;  but  there  thou  risest  yet, 
As  calm  amid  the  roar  of  storms,  the  shock 
Of  waves  uptorn,  and  hurled  against  thy  front, 
As  when,  on  summer  eves,  the  crimsoned  main, 
In  lingering  undulations,  girds  thee  round ! 

O,  might  I  stand  as  steadfast  and  as  free 
'Mid  the  fierce  strife  and  tumult  of  the  world, 
The  crush  of  all  the  elements  of  woe,  — 
Unshaken  by  their  terrors,  looking  forth 
With  placid  eye  on  life's  uncertain  sea, 
Whether  its  waves  were  darkly  swelling  high 
Or  dancing  in  the  sunshine,  —  then  might  frown 
The  clouds  of  fate  around  me !     Firm  in  faith, 
Pointing  serenely  to  that  better  world, 
Where  there  is  peace,  would  I  abide  the  storm, 
Unmindful  of  its  rage  and  of  its  end. 


47 


THE    HURRICANE'S    AMBUSCADE 


LOOK  upon  those  clouds  that  lie 
Pillowed  on  the  light  blue  sky, 
So  translucent  and  serene, 
That  they  hardly  dim  its  sheen : 
Look  upon  the  glittering  deep, 
Which  the  fiery  sunbeams  steep, 
Scattering  on  its  purple  floor 
Amethysts  and  golden  ore ! 

Yet  the  Spirit  of  the  storm 
Masks  his  elemental  form 
Under  this  celestial  smile, 
Nature  putteth  on  the  while; 


48  THE  HURRICANE'S  AMBUSCADE. 

And  the  day  shall  not  be  ended, 
Ere,  with  all  his  hosts  attended, 
We  shall  see  the  Hurricane 
Ride  upon  this  billowy  plain. 

Heralds  of  his  coming  swift, 
O'er  us  blackest  clouds  shall  drift; 
And  each  foaming  wave  below 
Seem  a  pall  half-merged  in  snow; 
Then  the  loosened  gale  shall  break, 
Scooping  mountains  for  his  wake, 
And,  with  island-shaking  roar, 
Drive  whole  argosies  ashore. 

But  we'll  put  our  ship  in  trim, 
And  await  this  tempest  grim, 
Trusting  not  those  tints  of  rose, 
Lured  not  by  this  smooth  repose : 
Then,  if  comes  the  ambushed  gale, 
And  his  vassal  waves  prevail, 
Foundered,  wrecked,  or  tempest-driven, 
Still  we  shall  have  nobly  striven. 


THE  HURRICANE'S  AMBUSCADE.  49 

Ah!  thou  voyager,  afloat 
On  life's  sea,  in  painted  boat, 
Crystal  skies  above  thee  bend, 
On  thee  prosperous  airs  attend; 
But,  when  fortune  seems  securest, 
Then  of  stealthy  change  be  surest; 
And,  with  spirit  bold  and  steady, 
For  the  sudden  storm  be  ready. 

From  the  earth  those  vapors  mount, 
And  its  moisture  is  their  fount; 
But  above  them,  ever  clear, 
Shines  the  starry  hemisphere : 
This  world's  sorrows,  this  world's  sighs, 
Weave  the  clouds  o'er  life  that  rise ; 
But,  eternally  above, 
Gleams  the  perfect  light  of  love. 
4 


50 


A    LIFE    ON    THE    OCEAN    WAVE, 


SET  TO  MUSIC  BY  HENRY  RUSSELL. 


A  LIFE  on  the  ocean  wave, 

A  home  on  the  rolling  deep; 
Where  the  scattered  waters  rave, 

And  the  winds  their  revels  keep  ! 
Like  an  eagle  caged,  I  pine 

On  this  dull,  unchanging  shore : 
O !  give  me  the  flashing  brine, 

The  spray  and  the  tempest's  roar ! 

Once  more  on  the  deck  I  stand, 
Of  my  own  swift-gliding  craft : 

Set  sail !  farewell  to  the  land ! 
The  gale  follows  fair  abaft. 


A   LIFE    ON    THE    OCEAN   WAVE.  51 

We  shoot  through  the  sparkling  foam 

Like  an  ocean-bird  set  free ;  — 
Like  the  ocean-bird,  our  home 

We'll  find  far  out  on  the  sea. 

The  land  is  no  longer  in  view, 

The  clouds  have  begun  to  frown; 
But  with  a  stout  vessel  and  crew, 

We'll  say,  Let  the  storm  come  down! 
And  the  song  of  our  hearts  shall  be, 

While  the  winds  and  the  waters  rave, 
A  home  on  the  rolling  se%! 

A  life  on  the  ocean  wave! 


MIDSUMMER    IN    THE    CITY 

O    RUS,    QUANDO    TE    ASPICIAM  ? 


I. 

O,  ye  keen  breezed* from  the  salt  Atlantic, 
Which  to  the  beach,  where  memory  loves  to  wander, 
On  your  strong  pinions  waft  reviving  coolness, 
Bend  your  course  hither ! 

II. 

For,  in  the  surf  ye  scattered  to  the  sunshine, 
Did  we  not  sport  together  in  my  boyhood, 
Screaming  for  joy  amid  the  flashing  breakers, 
O  rude  companions? 


MIDSUMMER    IN    THE    CITY.  53 

III. 

Then  to  the  meadows  beautiful  and  fragrant, 
Where  the  coy  Spring  beholds  her  earliest  verdure 
Brighten  with  smiles  that  rugged,  sea-side  hamlet, 
How  would  we  hasten! 

IV. 

There  under  elm-trees  affluent  in  foliage, 
High  o'er  whose  summit  hovered  the  sea-eagle, 
Through  the  hot,  glaring  noontide  have  we  rested, 
After  our  gambols. 

V. 

Vainly  the  sailor  called  you  from  your  slumber  : 
Like  a  glazed  pavement  shone  the  level  ocean; 
While,  with  their  snow-white  canvass  idly  drooping, 
Stood  the  tall  vessels. 

VI. 

And,  when  at  length,  exulting  ye  awakened, 
Rushed  to  the  beach,  and  ploughed  the  liquid  acres, 
How  have  I  chased  you  through  the  shivered  billows, 
In  my  frail  shallop ! 


54  MIDSUMMER   IN    THE    CITY. 

VII. 

Playmates,  old  playmates,  hear  my  invocation ! 
In  the  close  town  I  waste  this  golden  summer, 
Where  piercing  cries  and  sounds  of  wheels  in  motion 
Ceaselessly  mingle. 

VIII. 

When  shall  I  feel  your  breath  upon  my  forehead? 
When  shall  I  hear  you  in  the  elm-trees'  branches? 
When  shall  we  wrestle  in  the  briny  surges, 
Friends  of  my  boyhood? 


MUSIC    ON    THE    WATERS. 


HARK  !  while  our  ship  is  swinging 

Above  the  ocean  caves, 
The  twilight  gale  is  bringing 

Soft  music  o'er  the  waves. 
Ah !  from  what  isle  of  pleasure 

Floats  the  harmonious  sound? 
To  that  entrancing  measure, 

A  fairy  troop  might  bound. 

Hush!  now  it  faints,  it  lingers; 

Now  with  a  peal  sublime, 
Struck  by  the  wind-god's  fingers, 

It  drowns  the  billowy  chime. 


56  MUSIC    ON    THE    WATERS. 

The  stars  more  brightly  glisten; 

The  waves  beneath  the  moon 
Fall  down,  and  seem  to  listen, 

Enchanted,  to  the  tune. 

Now  mounting,  now  subsiding, 

It  swells,  it  sinks,  it  dies  ; 
Now  on  the  swift  breeze  gliding, 

Over  the  deep  it  flies. 
So  sweet  and  so  endearing 

The  strain,  that,  ere  'tis  done, 
Thought  seems  absorbed  in  hearing, 

All  senses  in  the  one. 


57 


THE    NIGHT-STORM    AT    SEA, 


'Tis  a  dreary  thing  to  be 

Tossing  on  the  wide,  wide  sea, 

When  the  sun  has  set  in  clouds, 

And  the  wind  sighs  through  the  shrouds 

With  a  voice  and  with  a  tone 

Like  a  living  creature's  moan. 

Look,  how  wildly  swells  the  surge 
Round  the  black  horizon's  verge! 
See  the  giant  billows  rise, 
From  the  ocean  to  the  skies, 
While  the  sea-bird  wheels  his  flight 
O'er  their  streaming  crests  of  white ! 


58  THE    NIGHT-STORM    AT    SEA. 

V 

List !  the  wind  is  wakening  fast ; 
All  the  sky  is  overcast ; 
Lurid  vapors,  hurrying,  trail 
In  the  pathway  of  the  gale, 
As  it  strikes  us  with  a  shock 
That  might  rend  the  deep-set  rock. 

Falls  the  strained  and  shivered  mast! 
Spars  are  scattered  by  the  blast; 
And  the  sails  are  split  asunder, 
As  a  cloud  is  rent  by  thunder; 
And  the  struggling  vessel  shakes, 
As  the  wild  sea  o'er  her  breaks. 


Ah!  what  sudden  light  is  this, 
Blazing  o'er  the  dark  abyss? 
Lo!  the  full  moon  rears  her  form 
'Mid  the  cloud-rifts  of  the  storm, 
And,  athwart  the  troubled  air, 
Shines,  like  hope  upon  despair ! 


THE    NIGHT-STORM   AT    SEA. 

Every  leaping  billow  gleams 
With  the  lustre  of  her  beams, 
And  lifts  high  its  fiery  plume 
Through  the  midnight's  parting  gloom, 
While  its  scattered  flakes  of  gold 
O'er  the  sinking  deck  are  rolled. 

Father,  low  on  bended  knee, 
Humbled,  weak,  we  turn  to  thee; 
Spare  us,  'mid  the  fearful  fight 
Of  the  raging  winds  to-night  ; 
Guide  us  o'er  the  threat'ning  wave; 
Save  us;  —  thou  alone  canst  save! 


59 


60 


A   SUMMER  NOON  AT   SEA. 


A  HOLY  stillness,  beautiful  and  deep, 

Reigns  in  the  air  and  broods  upon  the  ocean  ; 
The  worn-out  winds  are  quieted  to  sleep, 

And  not  a  wave  is  lifted  into  motion. 

The  fleecy  clouds  hang  on  the  soft  blue  sky, 
Into  fantastic  shapes  of  brilliance  moulded, 

Pillowed  on  one  another  broad  and  high, 

With  the  sun's  dazzling  tresses  interfolded. 

The  sea-bird  skims  along  the  glassy  tide, 

With  sidelong  flight  and  wing   of  glittering  white 
ness, 

Or  floats  upon  the  sea,  outstretching  wide 
A  sheet  of  gold  in  the  meridian  brightness. 


A    SUMMER   NOON    AT    SEA.  61 

Our  vessel  lies,  unstirred  by  wave  or  blast, 

As  she  were  moored  to  her  dark  shadow  seeming, 

Her  pennon  twined  around  the  tapering  mast, 

And  her  loose  sails  like  marble  drapery  gleaming. 

How,  at  an  hour  like  this,  the  unruffled  mind 
Partakes  the  quiet  that  is  shed  around  us ! 

As  if  the  Power  that  chained  the  impatient  wind 
With  the  same  fetter  of  repose  had  bound  us ! 


"FORGET  ME  NOT." 


"  FORGET  me  not  1 "  Ah,  words  of  useless  warning 
To  one  whose  heart  is  henceforth  memory's  shrine ! 

Sooner  the  skylark  might  forget  the  morning, 
Than  I  forget  a  look,  a  tone  of  thine. 


Sooner  the  sunflower  might  forget  to  waken 

When  the  first  radiance  lights  the  eastern  hill, 

Than  I,  by  daily  thoughts  of  thee  forsaken, 
Feel,  as  they  kindle,  no  expanding  thrill. 


Oft,  when  at  night  the  deck  I'm  pacing  lonely, 
Or  when  I  pause  to  watch  some  fulgent  star, 

Will  Contemplation  be  retracing  only 

Thy  form,  and  fly  to  greet  thee  though  afar. 


"FORGET  ME  NOT."  63 

When  storms  unleashed,  with  fearful  clangor  sweeping, 
Drive  our  strained  bark  along  the  hollowed  sea, 

When  to  the  clouds  the  foam-topped  waves  are  leaping, 
Even  then  I'll  not  forget,  beloved  one,  thee ! 


Thy  image,  in  my  sorrow-shaded  hours, 

Will,  like  a  sunburst  on  the  waters,  shine ; 

'Twill  be  as  grateful  as  the  breath  of  flowers 
From  some  green  island  wafted  o'er  the  brine. 

And  O,  sweet  lady,  when,  from  home  departed, 
I  count  the  leagues  between  us  with  a  sigh, — 

When,  at  the  thought,  perchance  a  tear  has  started, 
May  I  not  dream  in  heart  thou'rt  sometimes  nigh  ? 

Ay,  thou  wilt,  sometimes,  when  the  wine-cup  passes, 
And  friends  are  gathering  round  in  festal  glee, 

While  bright  eyes  flash  as  flash  the  brimming  glasses, 
Let  silent  Memory  pledge  one  health  to  me. 


64  "FORGET  ME  NOT." 

Farewell !     My  fatherland  is  disappearing 
Faster  and  faster  from  my  baffled  sight; 

The  winds  rise  wildly,  and  thick  clouds   are  rearing 
Their  ebon  flags,  that  hasten  on  the  night. 


Farewell !     The  pilot  leaves  us ;  seaward  gliding, 
Our  brave  ship  dashes  through  the  foamy  swell; 

But  Hope,  forever  faithful  and  abiding, 

Hears  distant  welcomes  in  this  last  farewell ! 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


GONELLO. 


'TWAS  in  fair  Florence,  in  the  olden  time, 

A  wight,  Gonello  named,  was  born  and  bred; 

A  famous  jester,  an  unequalled  mime, 

Sworn  foe  to  dulness  of  the  heart  and  head. 

Sunny  his  spirits  as  his  own  fair  clime;  . 

Mirth  was  his  raiment,  and  on  mirth  he  fed  : 

In  truth,  he  was  a  most  diverting  fellow; 

No  cross-grained  ^Esop,  but  —  in  short,  Gonello. 

But  Dulness  holds  it  treason  to  be  witty; 

And,  having  ridiculed  some  dolt  of  rank, 
Gonello  was  condemned  to  leave  the  city,  — 

A  hard  return  for  such  a  harmless  prank. 


68  GONELLO. 

Neither  his  jokes  nor  tears  could  gain  him  pity, 

And  all  his  friends  were  busy  or  looked  blank, 
When  he  drew  near  to  ask  them  for  assistance, 
Telling  him,  by  their  shrugs,  to  keep  his  distance. 

He  turned  away  in  loneliness  of  heart, 
Bestowing  many  a  bitter  gibe  on  those 

Who,  because  Folly  feared  some  random  dart 
While  Wit  was  foraging,  had  grown  his  foes. 

"Dear  Florence,"  quoth  he,  "must  I  then  depart? 
O  Fun  and  Fortune,  spare  me  further  blows !  " 

Was  it  not  Vandal  cruelty  to  pester 

With  banishment  so  capital  a  jester? 

Gonello  shook  the  dust  from  off  his  shoes, 
And  the  ungrateful  city  jokeless  left. 

One  friend,  please  Fortune,  he  would  never  lose  — 
A  merry  heart  —  that  still  remained  uncleft. 

What  should  he  do  ?  what  fit  employment  choose,  — 
Of  home,  of  patron,  and  of  means  bereft  ? 

At  length  he  recollected  a  report, 

A  fool  was  wanted  at  Ferrara's  court. 


GONELLO.  69 

Thither  he  went  to  seek  the  situation, 

And  urged  his  claims  with  such  a  comic  face, 

That  he  was  made,  by  formal  installation, 

Prime  fool  and  licensed  jester  to  his  grace; 

And,  having  settled  down  in  this  vocation, 
He  put  on  motley  as  became  his  place; 

And  thenceforth  passed  his  precious  time  in  joking, 

Punning  and  quizzing,  revelling  and  smoking. 

His  jests,  unlike  some  jests  that  we  might  name, 
Had  nothing  in  them  of  a  mouldy  savor ; 

But  fresh,  and  apt,  and  tipped  with  point  they  came, 
To  put  grim  Melancholy  out  of  favor ; 

To  drive  Imposture  to  his  den  of  shame, 

To  scourge  Pretence,  and  make  true  Merit  braver : 

So  that  you  granted,  after  you  had  laughed, 

Though  Wit  had  feathered,  Truth  had  barbed  the  shaft. 

The  marquis  held  him  in  esteem  so  great, 
That,  spite  of  motley  wear,  the  jester  soon 

Became  a  dabster  in  affairs  of  state, 

Though  frowned  upon  by  many  a  pompous  loon 


70  GONELLO. 

'Twas  an  odd  combination  of  his  fate  — 

A  politician,  honest  man,  buffoon  ! 
But  he  was  frank  —  rare  trait  in  an  adviser; 
And,  though  a  fool,  no  senator  was  wiser. 

And  so,  on  rapid  wing,  his  days  flew  by. 

What  though  a  league  of  dunces  might  oppose? 
From  modest  Worth  he  never  drew  the  sigh, 

And  never  added  to  Affliction's  woes. 
But,  ah!  securest  joy,  mishap  is  nigh; 

The  storm  condenses  while  the  noontide  glows: 
The  marquis  failed  in  health  —  grew  more  unwell ; 
And,  thereupon,  a  strange  event  befell. 

His  grace's  illness  was  a  quartan  ague, 

Which  the  physicians  tried  in  vain  to  cure. 

I  hope,  dear  reader,  it  may  never  plague  you  : 
Doubtless  'tis  quite  unpleasant  to  endure. 

Should  this  digression  seem  a  little  vague,  you 
Will  see  how  hard  it  is  a  rhyme  to  lure, 

And  pardon  me  the  fault;  or,  what  is  better, 

Remould  the  stanza,  and  make  me  your  debtor. 


GONELLO. 


71 


One  remedy  there  was;  but  who  would  dare 
Apply  it,  hazarding  the  patient's  wrath  ? 

'Twas  simply  this, — to  take  him  unaware 

And  throw  him  overboard,  by  way  of  bath ;  — 

A  liberty  he  might  not  tamely  bear, 

But  sweep  the  rash  adventurer  from  his  path. 

Since  the  physicians  would  not  then  apply  it, 

Gonello  secretly  resolved  to  try  it. 

No  great  regard  had  he  for  outward  rank  ; 

And  as  the  marquis  strolled  with  him  one  day, 
In  idle  mood,  along  the  river's  bank, 

He  pushed  him  over  headlong  from  the  quay; 
Then,  seeing  him  drawn  out  ere  thrice  he  sank, 

Turned  a  droll  somerset,  and  ran  away; 
Knowing,  unless  he  vanished  with  velocity, 
His  priceless  ears  might  pay  for  the  atrocity. 

The  marquis  was  pulled  out,  all  wet  and  dripping, 
Enraged  at  having  been  so  vilely  treated; 

Albeit,  indeed,  the  unexpected  dipping 

Had,  strange  to  say,  his  malady  unseated. 


72  GONELLO. 

But  still  he  swore,  the  knave  should  catch  a  whipping. 

In  this  he  quickly  found  himself  defeated ;  — 
His  followers  said,  Gonello  had  decamped; 
On  learning  which,  his  highness  swore  and  stamped. 

All  with  responsive  choler  were  inflamed  — 
At  least  they  said  so — at  the  daring  deed; 

And,  the  next  day,  an  edict  was  proclaimed, 
In  which  'twas  by  authority  decreed, 

Gonello  was  a  traitor,  who  had  aimed 

Even  at  his  liege's  life ;  —  and  so,  "  take  heed, 

All  ye  whom  it  concerns,  he  dies,  if  found, 

Ever  again,  upon  Ferrara  ground." 

Gonello  read  the  merciless  decree, 

Then  critically  conned  it  o'er  and  o'er, 

And  pondered  every  syllable,  to  see 
If  no  equivocal  intent  it  bore. 

Some  subtle  quirk,  he  thought,  some  jesting  plea, 
Might  help  his  fame  and  favor  to  restore. 

Yes!  he  has  wrested  an  equivocation, 

After  hard  study,  from  the  proclamation. 


GONELLO. 


73 


"  Tis  only  on  Ferrara  ground,"   he  said, 
"  The  penalty  here  threatened  can  befall ; 

On  ground  of  friendly  Padua  if  I  tread, 
Do  I  infringe  the  edict?     Not  at  all!" 

So,  without  fear  of  jeoparding  his  head, 

He  went  to  give  his  grace  a  morning  call, 

And  crossed  in  motley  state  Ferrara's  bound, 

Perched  on  a  wagon,  labelled  "  Batman  ©frounfc." 

By  this  device  he  hoped  to  have  evaded 

The  clutches  of  the  prowling  men  of  law; 

But,  ah  !  he  did  not  view  the  thing  as  they  did, 
Who  stood  not  for  entreaty  or  for  flaw, 

But  pulled  him  down,  unpitied  and  unaided, 

And  thrust  him  in  a  prison's  greedy  maw, — 

Assuring  him  that,  spite  of  needful  haste, 

The  "  affair "  should  be  conducted  in  good  taste. 

"The  affair!     Ha!  what  affair?"  Gonello  cried; 

"  Can  it  then  be  I'm  under  mortal  ban  ? 
Is  this  the  way  'gainst  lapses  to  provide,  — 

To  cut  the  head  off  of  the  erring  man  ? 


74  GONELLO. 

To  make  the  law  a  ruthless  homicide? 

Is  this  the  wisest,  most  remedial  plan? 
If  I  escape  this  sentence  of  impiety, 
I'll  found  an  anti-blood-spilling  society." 

Alas !  'tis  only  when  the  mischief  reaches 

Our  own  quick  sense  of  wrong,  we  feel  for  others  ; 

'Tis  then  Experience,  the  laggard,  teaches 

A  truth  the  unfeeling  world  too  often  smothers,' — 

And  yet  a  truth  which  conscience  ever  preaches,  — 
2T|)e  flootr  of  all  is  lofcgetr  In  one  poor  trotter's. 

O !  when  mankind  shall  feel  this  truth  aright, 

No  Fourier  need  scheme,  no  Taylor  fight. 

But  where's  Gonello?     To  his  dungeon-cell 
A  priest  has  come  to  give  him  absolution. 

"  Good  father,"  quoth  the  jester,  "  all  is  well ;  — 
The  spirit  carries  its  own  retribution ;  — 

Yes,  its  own  bias  is  its  heaven  or  hell. 
But  hark !  the  signal  for  my  execution  ! 

The  knell  of  fun !     Lead  on  !     Though  I'm  a  sinner, 

By  this  fair  light,  I  hope  to  be  the  winner ! " 


GONELLO.  75 

There  stands  the  scaffold  —  there  the  fatal  block! 

What  crowds  have  gathered  to  the  scene  of  blood ! 
Gonello  bows  his  head,  and  waits  the  shock 

That  shall  unseal  the  life-encircling  flood. 
An  interval  succeeds,  that  seems  to  mock 

The  horror  of  the  gasping  multitude ; 
When,  lo !  the  grinning  minister  of  slaughter 
Dashes  upon  the  block  a  pail  of  water ! 

An  uproar  of  applauses  rends  the  air ;  — 

"Long  live  the  marquis,  and  Gonello  long! 

'Twas  a  sham  sentence!  O,  requital  fair! 

And  Mercy  has  but  worn  the  mask  of  wrong  ! " 

Thus,  while  rebounding  joy  succeeds  despair, 

Exclaim,  'mid  wild  hurrahs,  the  hustling  throng  ; 

And  Laughter  treads  on  Grief's  receding  heel, 

Stunning  the  fugitive  with  peal  on  peal. 

But  soft !  the  jester  —  why  does  he  remain, 

On  the  uncrimsoned  platform,  mute  and  still? 

Has  agonizing  terror  stunned  his  brain, 

Or  sudden  gladness  sent  too  fierce  a  thrill  ? 


76  GONELLO. 

Faints  he  from  rapture  or  excess  of  pain  1 

His  heart  beats  riot  — his  brow  is  pale  and  chill - 
Light  from  his  eyes,  heat  from  his  limbs  has  fled ;  • 
Jesu  Maria!  he  is  dead  —  is  dead! 

Ay,  the  wrought  spirit,  straining  for  the  light, 
And  fixed  in  its  conceit  that  death  was  near, 

Felt  the  sharp  steel  in  harmless  water  smite, 

Heard  the  air  part  as  no  one  else  could  hear. 

Its  own  volition  was  its  power  of  flight 
Above  this  gross,  material  atmosphere. 

A  phantom  axe  was  wielded  to  forestall 

The  stroke  it  deemed  the  headsman  would  let  fall. 

And  so  the  farce  became  a  tragedy. 

The  moral  of  it  you  may  briefly  read ;  — 
Carried  too  far,  jokes  practical  may  be 

Edge  tools  to  make  the  meddlers'  fingers  bleed. 
But,  poor  Gonello  !  spendthrift  child  of  glee ! 

Wit's  bounteous  almoner!  'twas  hard  indeed, 
That  thou,  the  prime  dispenser  of  good  jokes, 
Should  fall  at  last  the  victim  of  a  hoax ! 


GONELLO.  77 

And  yet  the  marquis,  who  had  but  designed 

Rough  trick  for  trick,  deserves  our  pity  more; 

For,  from  that  hour  of  grief,  his  peace  of  mind 
Incurably  was  wounded  at  the  core. 

Mirth  bade  his  heart  farewell  —  he  pined  and  pined, 
As  though  Life  held  no  further  joy  in  store. 

Gonello  had  both  balked  him  of  his  jest, 

And  himself  played  his  last  one  and  his  best. 


78 


THE  MARTYR  OF  THE  ARENA. 


HONORED  be  the  hero  evermore, 

Who  at  Mercy's  call  has  nobly  died  ! 

Echoed  be  his  name  from  shore  to  shore, 
With  immortal  chronicles  allied! 


Verdant  be  the  turf  upon  his  dust, 

Bright  the  sky  above,  and  soft  the  air! 

In  the  grove  set  up  his  marble  bust, 

And  with  garlands  crown  it,  fresh  and  fair, 

In  melodious  numbers,  that  shall  live 

With  the  music  of  the  rolling  spheres, 

Let  the  minstrel's  inspiration  give 
His  eulogium  to  the  future  years! 


THE  MARTYR  OF  THE  ARENA.  79 

Not  the  victor  in  his  country's  cause, 

Not  the  chief  who  leaves  a  people  free, 

Not  the  framer  of  a  nation's  laws, 

Shall  deserve  a  greater  fame  than  he. 


Hast  thou  heard,  in  Rome's  declining  day, 
How  a  youth,  by  Christian  zeal  impelled, 

Swept  the  sanguinary  games  away 
Which  the  Coliseum  once  beheld? 


Crowds  on  crowds  had  gathered  to  the  sight, 
And  the  tiers  their  gazing  thousands  showed, 

When  two  gladiators,  armed  for  fight, 
O'er  the  arena's  sandy  circle  strode. 


Rang  the  dome  with  plaudits  loud  and  long, 
As,  with  shields  advanced,  the  athletes  stood  : 

Was  there  no  one  in  that  eager  throng 
To  denounce  the  spectacle  of  blood  ? 


80  THE  MARTYR  OF  THE  ARENA. 

Ay,  Telemachus,  with  swelling  frame, 

Saw  the  inhuman  sport  renewed  once  more 

Few  were  gathered  there  could  tell  his  name, 
And  a  cross  was  all  the  badge  he  wore; 


Yet,  with  brow  elate  and  godlike  mien, 

Stepped  he  forth  upon  the  circling  sand; 

And,  while  all  were  wondering  at  the  scene, 
Checked  the  encounter  with  a  daring  hand. 


"  Romans  !  "  cried  he,  "  let  this  reeking  sod 
Never  more  with  human  blood  be  stained! 

Let  no  image  of  the  living  God 

In  unhallowed  combat  be  profaned! 

"  Ah  !  too  long  hath  this  colossal  dome 

Failed  to  sink  and  hide  your  brutal  shows 

Here  I  call  upon  assembled  Rome 

Now  to  swear,  they  shall  forever  close!" 


THE  MARTYR  OF  THE  ARENA.  81 

Parted  thus,  the  combatants,  with  joy, 

'Mid  the  tumult  found  the  means  to  fly; 

In  the  arena  stood  the  undaunted  boy, 

And,  with  looks  adoring,  gazed  on  high. 


Pealed  the  shout  of  wrath  on  every  side ; 

Every  hand  was  forward  to  assail ; 
"Slay  him!  slay  — "  a  thousand  voices  cried, 

Wild  with  fury  ;  but  he  did  not  quail. 

Hears  he,  as  entranced  he  looks  above, 

Strains  celestial,  which  the  menace  drown  ? 

Sees  he  angels,  with  their  eyes  of  love, 

Beck'ning  to  him  with  a  martyr's  crown? 


Fiercer  swelled  the  people's  angry  shout; 

Launched  against  him  flew  the  stones  like  rain ; 
Death  and  terror  circled  him  about  ; 

But  he  stood  and  perished  —  not  in  vain ! 
6 


:  THE  MARTYR  OF  THE  ARENA. 

Not  in  vain  the  youthful  martyr  fell : 

Then  and  there  he  crushed  a  bloody  creed  ; 

And  his  high  example  shall  impel 
Future  heroes  to  as  brave  a  deed. 


Stony  answers  yet  remain  for  those 

Who  would  question  and  precede  the  time : 

In  their  season,  may  they  meet  their  foes, 
Like  Telemachus,  with  front  sublime  ! 


83 


WOODHULL 


'TwAs  when  Long  Island's  heights  beheld 

The  king's  invading  horde, 
That,  by  outnumbering  foes  compelled, 

Our  chief  gave  up  his  sword. 

Then  spoke  the  victor  :  "  Now  from  me 

No  mercy  shall  you  wring, 
Unless,  base  rebel,  on  your  knee, 

You  cry,  'God  save  the  king!" 

With  reverent  but  undaunted  tone, 
Then  Woodhull  made  reply, — 

"  No  king  I  own,  save  one  alone, 
The  Lord  of  earth  and  sky ! 


84  WOODHULL. 

"But  far  from  me  the  wish  that  ill 
Your  monarch  should  befall; 

So,  freely,  and  with  right  good  will, 
I'll  say,  God  save  us  all ! " 


Shouted  the  foeman,  "  Paltering  slave ! 

Repeat,  without  delay, 
'God  save  the  king,'  nor  longer  brave 

The  fury  that  can  slay !  " 


But  Woodhull  said,  "Unarmed,  I  hear; 

Yet  threats  cannot  appal  ; 
Ne'er  passed  these  lips  the  breath  of  fear, 

And  so,  God  save  us  all ! " 


"Then,  rebel,  rue  thy  stubborn  will," 

The  ruffian  victor  cried ; 
"This  weapon  shall  my  threat  fulfil; 

So  perish  in  thy  pride ! " 


WOODHULL.  85 

Rapid  as  thought,  the  murderous  blow 

Fell  on  the  prisoner's  head; 
With  warrior  rage  he  scanned  his  foe, 

Then,  staggering,  sank  and  bled. 


But  anger  vanished  with  his  fall ; 

His  heart  the  wrong  forgave : 
Dying,  he  sighed,  "God  save  you  all, 

And  me,  a  sinner,  save ! " 


86 


THE    LAST    OF    HIS    TRIBE. 


A  SUNNY  slope  upon  a  mountain's  side: 
Green  woods  and  yellow  fields  of  waving  corn 
Look  down  upon  the  Indians'  birchen  tents. 
The  young  men  of  the  tribe  are  at  their  sports : 
Who  is  the  fleetest  hunter  of  them  all  ? 
Whose  arrow  floats  the  surest  to  the  mark  ? 
Who  is  in  council  wise,  in  battle  brave  ? 

'Tis  the  youthful  Etlah ;  — 

On  his  breast  is  hung 

Many  a  shining  trophy, 

Which  proclaims  his  worth. 

Years  fled.     The  white  men  burst  upon  that  vale, 
And  the  fair  hamlet  was  a  desolation. 
The  warriors  of  the  tribe  are  met  in  council : 
Whose  kindling  eye  the  indignant  tear-drop  fills  ? 


THE    LAST    OF    HIS    TRIBE.  87 

Whose  matchless  tones  of  eloquent  appeal 
With  one  vibration  shake  a  thousand  hearts, 
And  wake  a  thousand  echoes  to  his  cry? 

'Tis  the  chieftain  Etlah's ;  — 

He  is  clad  for  fight, 

And  his  cry  is  "  Vengeance !  " 

As  he  lifts  his  spear. 

The  battle-field,  the  clangor,  and  the  smoke ; 
The  white  man's  trumpet,  and  the  Indian's  yell ; 
The  flying  steed,  his  fetlocks  clogged  with  gore, 
The  trampled  rider  and  the  dying  foe ! 
Whose  rallying  shout  is  loudest  'mid  the  fray? 
In  whose  right  hand  has  Havoc  placed  the  axe  ? 
Who,  meteor-like,  streams  through  the  ranks  in  blood  ? 

'Tis  the  avenging  Etlah ;  — 

Though  his  little  band 

Fall  in  heaps  around  him, 

Yet  he  does  not  quail. 

Night  ends  the  combat.     On  the  trodden  grass, 
Wet  more  with  slaughter  than  the  dews  of  heaven, 


88 


THE    LAST    OF    HIS    TRIBE. 


The  unconscious  stars,  serenely  bright,  look  down. 
Beside  a  rushing  stream,  some  dusky  forms 
Lie  couched  in  slumber ;  but  one  stands  apart, 
Leans  on  his  rifle  and  surveys  the  field : 
What  lonely  watcher  thus  surveys  the  field? 

'Tis  the  intrepid  Etlah, 

Calm  in  his  despair; 

Lo!  his  best  and  bravest 

Lifeless  strow  the  plain  ! 

Under  a  tree  scathed  by  the  lightning's  bolt, 
Meet  emblem  of  his  fate,  a  warrior  kneels ;  — 
For  him,  no  living  heart  beats  tenderly; 
Friend,  kinsman,  brother,  sister,  mother,  wife  — 
All  are  no  more!  —  his  heart  is  desolate; 
And  for  the  shadowy  hunting-grounds  he  sighs, 
And  prays  to  the  Great  Spirit  for  release : 

'Tis  the  aged  Etlah, 

Last  of  all  his  tribe ;  — 

Who  remains  to  cheer  him  ? 

Who  remains  to  mourn  1 


THE    DEATH    OF    WARREN 


SET    TO    MUSIC    BY    W.    R.    DEMPSTER. 


WHEN  the  war-cry  of  Liberty  rang  through  the  land, 
To  arms  sprang  our  fathers  the  foe  to  withstand; 
On  old  Bunker  Hill  their  entrenchments  they  rear, 
When  the  army  is  joined  by  a  young  volunteer. 
"  Tempt  not  death !  "  cried  his  friends ;  but  he  bade 

them  good-by, 
Saying,  "  O !  it  is  sweet  for  our  country  to  die ! " 

The  tempest  of  battle  now  rages  and  swells, 
'Mid  the  thunder  of  cannon,  the  pealing  of  bells ; 
And  a  light,  not  of  battle,  illumes  yonder  spire  — 
Scene  of  woe  and  destruction;  —  'tis  Charlestown  on 

fire! 

The  young  volunteer  heedeth  not  the  sad  cry, 
But  murmurs,  "  'Tis  sweet  for  our  country  to  die!" 


90  THE    DEATH    OF    WARREN. 

With  trumpets  and  banners  the  foe  draweth  near  : 
A  volley  of  musketry  checks  their  career ! 
With  the  dead  and  the  dying  the  hill-side  is  strown, 
And  the  shout  through  our  lines  is,  "  The  day  is  our 

own ! " 

"Not  yet,"  cries  the  young  volunteer,  "do  they  fly! 
Stand  firm !  —  it  is  sweet  for  our  country  to  die ! " 

Now  our  powder  is  spent,  and  they  rally  again;  — 
"  Retreat ! "  says  our    chief,  "  since  unarmed  we  re 


main  ! 


t» 


But  the  young  volunteer  lingers  yet  on  the  field, 

Reluctant  to  fly,  and  disdaining  to  yield. 

A  shot !     Ah !  he  falls !  but  his  life's  latest  sigh 

O 

Is,  "  'Tis  sweet,  O,  'tis  sweet  for  our  country  to  die !  " 

And  thus  Warren  fell !     Happy  death !  noble  fall ! 
To  perish  for  country  at  Liberty's  call! 
Should  the  flag  of  invasion  profane  evermore 
The  blue  of  our  seas  or  the  green  of  our  shore, 
May  the  hearts  of  our  people  reecho  that  cry,  — 
"  'Tis  sweet,  O,  'tis  sweet  for  our  country  to  die ! " 


91 


ODE 

FOR    THE    ANNIVERSARY    OF    WASHINGTON'S    BIRTHDAY. 
Tune  —  "  HAIL,  COLUMBIA  ! ' 


WHEN,  on  Yorktovvn's  battle-field, 
He  beheld  Comwallis  yield, 

"  Cheer  not ! "  said  our  patriot  chief; 
"Let  Posterity's  acclaim 
Sound  the  triumph  and  the  fame." 
Mute  were  our  victorious  host; 
And  it  was  no  empty  boast: 
We,  and  freemen  yet  unborn, 
Shall  salute  his  birthday  morn. 

Now,  then,  let  our  voices  ring; 

Now  memorial  tributes  bring! 

Are  there  battles  to  be  won? 

Let  the  cry  be,  "Washington!" 


92 


ODE. 


In  our  nation's  doubtful  day, 
In  her  peril  and  dismay, 

When  the  bravest  hearts  repined, 
Steadfast  as  the  eternal  rock, 
He  withstood  the  tempest-shock; 
And  when  Victory  came  down 
With  her  shining  laurel-crown, 
Still  his  glory  found  increase, 
For  he  was  the  first  in  peace. 

Though  thy  frame  is  in  the  dust, 
Spirit  of  the  brave  and  just, 

Thou  art  all  thy  country's  still : 
Still  thy  great  example  lives, 
And  its  life  to  millions  gives; 
Still  thy  influence  we  hail, 
Still  thy  counsels  shall  prevail; 
And  thy  very  name  shall  be 
Like  a  spell  to  Liberty ! 


93 


THE    DAYS  THAT   ARE   PAST 


WE  will  not  deplore  them,  the  days  that  are  past : 
The  gloom  of  misfortune  is  over  them  cast; 
They  were  lengthened  by  sorrow  and  sullied  by  care, 
Their  griefs  were  too  many,  their  joys  were  too  rare; 
Yet  now  that  their  shadows  are  on  us  no  more, 
Let  us  welcome  the  prospect  that  brightens  before ! 

We've    cherished    fair    hopes,    we've    plotted    brave 

schemes,  — 

We've  lived  till  we  find  them  illusive  as  dreams; 
Wealth  has  melted   like  snow  that  is  grasped  in  the 

hand, 
And  the  steps  we  have  climbed   sink  beneath  us  like 

sand; 

Yet  shall  we  despond  while  of  health  unbereft, 
And  honor,  bright  honor,  and  freedom  are  left? 


94  THE  DAYS  THAT  ARE  PAST. 

O,  shall  we  despond,  while  the  pages  of  time 

Yet  open  before  us  their  records  sublime? 

While,  ennobled  by  treasures  more  precious  than  gold, 

"We  can  walk  with  the  heroes  and  martyrs  of  old? 

While  humanity  whispers  such  tales  in  the  ear, 

As  it  softens  the  heart,  like  sweet  music,  to  hear  ? 

O,  shall  we  despond,  while,  with  vision  still  free, 
We  can  gaze  on  the  sky,  and  the  earth,  and  the  sea? 
While  the  sunshine  can  waken  a  burst  of  delight, 
And  the  stars  are  a  joy  and  a  glory  by  night? 
While  each  harmony  running  through  nature  can  raise, 
In  our  spirits,  the  impulse  of  gladness  and  praise  ? 

O,  let  us  no  longer  then  vainly  lament 
Over  scenes  that  are  faded,  and  days  that  are  spent ! 
But,  by  faith  unforsaken,  unawed  by  mischance, 
On  Hope's  waving  banner  still  fixed  be  our  glance ; 
And  should  Fortune  prove  cruel  and  false  to  the  last, 
Let  us  look  to  the  future,  and  not  to  the  past ! 


95 


THE    GAY    DECEIVER. 


SET    TO    MUSIC    BY    W.    R.    DEMPSTER. 


SUMMER  wind!     Summer  wind! 

Where  hast  thou  been? 
Chasing  the  gossamer 

Over  the  green  ? 
Rifling  the  cowslip's  wealth, 

Down  in  the  dale? 
Light-pinioned  pilferer, 

Tell  me  thy  tale! 

"  I  am  a  rover  gay, 
Dashing  and  free, — 

Now  on  the  land  astray, 
Now  on  the  sea. 


96  THE    GAY   DECEIVER. 

I  quaff  the  honey-breath 
Of  the  young  rose ; 

I  kiss  the  violet 

Where  the  brook  flows." 

Out  on  thee,  fugitive, 

Fickle,  untrue ! 
Leaving  the  violet, 

Whom  wilt  thou  woo? 
Canst  thou  delighted  be 

With  hearts  undone? 
Canst  thou  show  constancy 

Never  to  one? 

"Ah!  hear  me,  maiden  dear! 

Turn  not  away : 
I  have  a  rover  been 

Until  to-day ; 
But  now  I  find  a  home 

Where  I  can  rest ;  — 
Captive,  I  sink,  at  length, 

Here  on  thy  breast." 


97 


FLORETTE. 


ILLUSTRATIVE    OF    A    PICTURE. 


SPRING-FLOWER  of  loveliness !  gentle  Florette! 
Who  that  once  saw  thee  could  ever  forget  ? 
While  a  spark  of  life  lingers,  this  heart  and  this  brain 
Shall  thy  beauty  recall  and  thy  image  retain. 

Though  Time  has  sped  far  on  his  merciless  flight 
Since  first  thy  dear  features  enchanted  my  sight, 
As  clearly  they  rise  upon  memory  yet 
As  when,  in  the  bloom  of  thy  graces,  we  met. 

'Twas  a  bright  day  in  autumn :  on  hill-side  and  plain, 
Like  a  yellower  sunshine,  appeared  the  bright  grain ; 
And  there  .'mid  the  reapers,  Florette,  didst  thou  stand, 
With  the  spoils  of  the  harvest  half-clasped  in  thy  hand. 

7 


98  FLORETTE. 

Well  and  boldly  the  limner  hath  ventured  to  trace 
Thy  dark-folded  hair  and  thy  luminous  face; 
But  the  image  engraven  deep,  deep  in  my  heart, 
Is  matchless  in  nature  and  fairer  than  art. 


99 


THE   SPRING-TIME  WILL   RETURN 


THE  birds  are  mute,  the  bloom  is  fled, 

Cold,  cold  the  north  winds  blow; 
And  radiant  Summer  lieth  dead 

Beneath  a  shroud  of  snow. 
Sweet  Summer!  well  may  we  regret 

Thy  brief,  too  brief  sojourn ; 
But,  while  we  grieve,  we'll  not  forget, 

The  Spring-time  will  return! 

Dear  friend,  the  hills  rise  bare  and  bleak 
That  bound  thy  future  years; 

Clouds  veil  the  sky,  no  golden  streak, 
No  rainbow  light  appears; 


100  THE    SPRING-TIME    WILL    RETURN. 

Mischance  has  tracked  thy  fairest  schemes, 
To  wreck  —  to  whelm  —  to  burn; 

But  wintry-dark  though  Fortune  seems, 
The  Spring-time  will  return! 

Beloved  one!  where  no  sunbeams  shine 

Thy  mortal  frame  we  laid; 
But  O,  thy  spirit's  form  divine 

Waits  no  sepulchral  shade ! 
No,  by  those  hopes  which,  plumed  with  light, 

The  sod,  exulting,  spurn, 
Love's  paradise  shall  bloom  more  bright  — 

The  Spring-time  will  return! 


101 


THE    FOUNTAIN    IN    THE    CITY. 


AMID    the    city's   din    and   dust,  thy  foaming    column 

springs, 
And  on  the    trodden    soil    around    refreshing  moisture 

flings. 

Thou'rt    like    that    grateful    human    heart,  O  fountain 

pure  and  bright ! 
Which,  in   the    midst  of  sin    and    care,  is  ever   fresh 

and  white ; 

• 

Which  scatters  love  and  joy  around,  and,  as  it  gushes, 

shows 
Each  ray  from  Heaven,  its  fountain-head,  and  Faith's 

prismatic  bows. 


102 


THE    CAPTIVE. 


"  RISE  from  thy  dungeon  floor ! 

Captive,  thy  hour  is  nigh  ! 
Look  on  the  rising  sun  once  more, 

And  then  prepare  to  die! 
Is  not  the  green  earth  fair? 

The  morning  gale  how  sweet! 
With  Spring's  first  odors  in  the  air, 

Her  blossoms  at  our  feet ! 

"  Captive !  gaze  well  around : 

Wouldst  leave  this  cheerful  light  — 
This  world,  where  pleasures  so  abound 

For  death's  unfathomed  night? 


THE    CAPTIVE.  103 

Listen !  a  word,  a  sign, 

That  thou  abjur'st  thy  creed, 
Life,  riches,  honors  —  all  are  thine: 

Ha !  wilt  thou  now  be  freed  ? " 

The  captive  gazed,  and  said, — 

"  O,  lovely  is  the  light ; 
And  fairer  scenes  were  never  spread 

Beneath  my  waking  sight; 
And  fragrant  is  the  breath 

Of  this  reviving  breeze ; 
But  O,  more  fair  than  all,  is  death, 

To  him  whose  spirit  sees ! 

"  For  that  is  life  indeed, 

Which  heeds  not  time  and  space; 
And  freedom,  where  no  bonds  impede 

The  spirit's  heavenward  race. 
O.  speed  me  to  that  goal, 

Beneath  that  brighter  sky ! 
Death  cannot  daunt  the  immortal  soul ;  — 

Brother,  lead  on  to  die ! " 


104 


FANTASY   AND  FACT. 


THOU  say'st  we  never  met  before 

Within  the  world's  wide  space; 
And  yet  the  more  I  gaze,  the  more 

I  recollect  thy  face : 
Each  feature  to  my  mind  recalls 

An  image  of  the  past, 
Which,  where  the  shade  of  Memory  falls, 

Is  sacred  to  the  last. 

But  she  whose  charms  revive  in  thine 

Was  not,  alas !  of  earth  ; 
And  yet  for  earth  not  too  divine, 

Though  Fancy  gave  her  birth. 


FANTASY   AND    FACT.  105 

She  haunted  me  by  summer  streams, 

And  burst  upon  my  sight, 
When,  through  the  pleasant  Land  of  Dreams, 

I  roamed  at  will,  by  night. 

Lost  idol !  why  didst  thou  depart  1 

O,  let  thine  earnest  eyes  — 
Abstraction,  vision,  though  thou  art  — 

Once  more  my  heart  surprise  ! 
She  comes,  a  fair  and  sylph-like  girl : 

Whom,  happy,  doth  she  seek? 
And  raven  curls  their  links  unfurl 

Adown  her  radiant  cheek. 

I  clasp  her  hands  in  mine  once  more  — 

Again  I  am  a  boy  ! 
The  past  shows  nothing  to  deplore, 

The  future  is  all  joy. 
We  wander  through  deserted  halls ; 

We  climb  the  wooded  height; 
WTe  hear  the  roar  of  waterfalls, 

And  watch  the  eagle's  flight. 


106  FANTASY   AND    FACT. 

We  stand  where  sunset  colors  lie 

Upon  a  lake  at  rest; 
And  O,  what  clouds  of  Tyrian  dye 

Are  sloping  down  the  west ! 
And  high  above  the  purple  pile, 

The  evening  star  appears; 
Till,  as  we  gaze,  the  loved  one's  smile, 

Like  twilight's,  ends  in  tears. 

I  turn  to  thee,  a*id  start  to  see 

Again  that  bright  ideal, — 
The  eyes,  the  shape,  the  ringlets  free, 

The  fanciful  made  real ! 
Two  visions  have  waylaid  my  heart, 

A  false  one  and  a  true; 
And,  by  the  soul  of  truth,  thou  art 

The  fairer  of  the  two! 


107 


A   MORNING  INVOCATION. 


WAKE,  slumberer!  Summer's  sweetest  hours 

Are  speeding  fast  away; 
The  sun  has  waked  the  opening  flowers 

To  greet  the  new-born  day ; 
The  deer  leaps  from  his  leafy  haunt, 

And  swims  the  purple  lake; 
The  birds  their  grateful  carols  chant, — 

All  Nature  cries,  "  Awake !  " 

O,  lose  not  in  unconscious  ease 

An  hour  so  heavenly  fair : 
Come  forth,  while  yet  the  glittering  trees 

Wave  in  the  genial  air,  — 


108  A    MORNING    INVOCATION. 

While  yet  a  dewy  freshness  fills 
The  morning's  fragrant  gale, 

As  o'er  the  woods  and  up  the  hills 
The  mist  rolls  from  the  vale. 

Awake  !     Too  soon,  alas !  too  soon, 

The  glory  shall  decay, 
And,  in  the  fervid  eye  of  noon, 

The  freshness  fade  away. 
Then  seize  the  hour  so  swift  of  flight, 

Its  early  bloom  partake  : 
By  all  that's  beautiful  and  bright, 

I  call  on  thee,  Awake ! 


109 


THE  FUGITIVE   FROM   LOVE. 


Is  there  but  a  single  theme 
For  the  youthful  poet's  dream? 
Is  there  but  a  single  wire 
To  the  youthful  poet's  lyre? 
Earth  below  and  heaven  above  — 
Can  he  sing  of  nought  but  love  ? 

Nay  !  the  battle's  dust  I  see  — 
God  of  war,  I  follow  thee ; 
And,  in  martial  numbers,  raise 
Worthy  preans  to  thy  praise ! 
Ah !  she  meets  me  on*  the  field  — 
If  I  fly  not,  I  must  yield. 


110  THE  FUGITIVE  FROM  LOVE. 

Jolly  patron  of  the  grape, 
To  thy  arms  I  will  escape : 
Quick,  the  rosy  nectar  bring  — 
"lo  Bacche!"  I  will  sing! 
Ha  !  confusion  !  every  sip 
But  reminds  me  of  her  lip. 

Pallas,  give  me  wisdom's  page, 

And  awake  my  epic  rage! 

Love  is  fleeting,  love  is  vain ;  — 

I  will  try  a  nobler  strain  ! 

O,  perplexity !  my  books 

But  reflect  her  haunting  looks. 

Jupiter,  on  thee  I  cry  — 

Take  me  and  my  lyre  on  high ! 

Lo!  the  stars  beneath  me  gleam  — 

Here,  O  poet,  is  a  theme ! 

Madness !  she  is  come  above ! 

Every  chord  is  whispering,  "  Love ! " 


Ill 


WHEN  THE  NIGHT-WIND  BEWAILETH 


SET    TO    MUSIC    BY    W.    R.    DEMPSTER. 


WHEN  the  night-wind  bewaileth 

The  fall  of  the  year, 
And  sweeps  from  the  forest 

The  leaves  that  are  sere, 
I  wake  from  my  slumber 

And  list  to  the  roar; 
And  it  saith  to  my  spirit, 

"No  more  —  never  more! 
O  !  never  more  !  " 

Through  memory's  chambers, 
The  forms  of  the  past, 

The  joys  of  my  childhood 
Rush  by  with  the  blast; 


112  WHEN    THE    NIGHT-WIND    BEWAILETH. 

And  the  lost  one,  whose  beauty 

I  used  to  adore, 
Seems  to  sigh  with  the  night-breeze, 

"  No  more  —  never  more! 
O  !  never  more !  " 

The  trees  of  the  forest 

Shall  blossom  again, 
And  the  wild  birds  shall  carol 

A  soul-thrilling  strain  ; 
But  the  heart  fate  has  withered 

No  spring  shall  restore; 
And  its  songs  shall  be  joyful 

No  more  —  never  more  ! 
O  !  never  more ! 


113 


TO  A   SINGING  BIRD. 


BLITHE  little  prisoned  warbler, 

Thy  silvery  tones  outbreak, 
Like  raindrops  among  summer  leaves, 

Or  on  a  glassy  lake! 
How  can  such  gleeful  carols 

Gush  from  thy  quivering  breast, 
When  in  that  gloomy  cage  thou'rt  held, 

Far  from  thy  native  nest  ? 

O,  dost  thou  never  languish, 
And  droop  thy  head  in  pain; 

Missing  the  genial  island-home 
Thou  may'st  not  see  a<rain? 


114  TO    A    SINGING    BIRD. 

The  palm-tree  bent  above  thee 
With  blossoms  on  its  bough, 

The  vine-leaves  clustered  by  thy  side,  — 
No  verdure  cheers  thee  now. 

Thy  wings,  that  chased  the  sunbeam, 

Have  weak  and  nerveless  grown ; 
And  faded  is  the  golden  hue, 

That  on  thy  plumage  shone:  — 
Brick  walls  and  dusty  pavements 

Are  all  that  meet  thine  eye, 
For  thou  art  even  hidden  from 

The  blue,  impartial  sky. 

And  yet  thou  hast  forgiven 

Thy  nature's  grievous  wrong; 
And  thy  full  heart  exultingly 

Pours  itself  forth  in  song ;  — 
An  exile  and  a  captive, 

All  lonely  and  bereft, 
The  impulse  that  now  prompts  thy  lay, 

The  rapture  still  is  left. 


TO    A    SINGING   BIRD.  115 

O  joy-creating  minstrel! 

I  bless  thee  for  the  thought, 
Which  thy  untutored  harmony, 

Thy  hymn  of  love  hath  brought : 
If,  in  thy  hour  of  darkness, 

Such  grateful  glee  is  thine, 
How  should  the  immortal  hope  within 

Forbid  me  to  repine ! 


116 


THE    FIRST    SNOW-STORM 


As  for  the  first  wild  flower, 

In  the  early  time  of  spring ; 
As  for  the  summer  shower, 

When  earth  is  languishing; 
As  for  the  rainbow's  blending ; 

As  for  the  day-star's  glow, — 
Have  I  looked  for  the  descending 

Of  the  first  November  snow. 

It  comes !  on  pinions  airy 
The  virgin  flakes  alight, 

Like  the  torn  plumes  of  a  fairy, 
Or  the  apple-blossoms  white ; 


THE    FIRST    SNOW-STORM.  117 

With  undulating  motion, 

The  frozen  ground  they  reach, 

Or  melt  into  the  ocean, 

That  booms  along  the  beach. 

Why  watch  I  thus  the  falling 

Of  the  first  November  snow  ? 
Because  on  me  'tis  calling 

In  the  voice  of  long  ago ; 
Because  it  ever  blendeth 

With  the  memories  of  the  boy ;  — 
Each  flake,  as  it  descendeth, 

Enshrouds  a  perished  joy ! 

O!  for  those  days  when,  rushing 

Into  the  powdery  air, 
I  felt  the  free,  wild  gushing 

Of  a  spirit  without  care ! 
How,  through  the  drifts  that  whitened 

Our  window-sills  at  home, 
I  dashed,  with  heart  unfrightened, 

Like  a  dolphin  through  the  foam ! 


118  THE    FIRST    SNOW-STORM. 

And  then  the  merry  ringing 

Of  the  sleigh-bells  at  the  door, 
And  the  winter  evening,  bringing 

A  thousand  pleasures  more  ! 
And  the  dear  friends  who  surrounded 

Our  log-devouring  hearth, 
And  the  old  songs  that  resounded, 

And  the  hours  of  blameless  mirth ! 

Ah,  first  snow  of  November ! 

These  joys  thou  dost  recall ; 
But  with  them  I  remember, 

They  shall  no  more  befall : 
Companions  have  departed, 

With  whom  that  season  fled; 
And  some  are  weary-hearted, 

And  some  are  with  the  dead. 


119 


SUMMER    IN   THE    HEART. 


THE  cold  blast  at  the  casement  beats ; 

The  window-panes  are  white ; 
The  snow  whirls  through  the  empty  streets 

It  is  a  dreary  night ! 
Sit  down,  old  friend ;  the  wine-cups  wait  : 

Fill,  to  o'erflowing,  fill ! 
Though  Winter  howleth  at  the  gate, 

In  our  hearts  'tis  summer  still ! 

For  we  full  many  summer  joys 

And  greenwood  sports  have  shared, 

When,  free  and  ever-roving  boys, 

The  rocks,  the  streams,  we  dared ; 


120  SUMMER  IN  THE  HEAEt. 

And,  as  I  look  upon  thy  face, 
Back,  back  o'er  years  of  ill, 

My  heart  flies  to  that  happy  place, 
Where  it  is  summer  still. 

Yes,  though  like  sere  leaves  on  the  ground, 

Our  early  hopes  are  strown, 
And  cherished  flowers  lie  dead  around, 

And  singing  birds  are  flown, 
The  verdure  is  not  faded  quite, 

Not  mute  all  tones  that  thrill; 
And  seeing,  hearing  thee  to-night, 

In  my  heart  'tis  summer  still. 

Fill  up !     The  olden  times  come  back 

With  light  and  life  once  more; 
We  scan  the  Future's  sunny  track 

From  Youth's  enchanted  shore;  — 
The  lost  return :  through  fields  of  bloom 

We  wander  at  our  will  ; 
Gone  is  the  Winter's  angry  gloom  — 

In  our  hearts  'tis  summer  still. 


121 


THE    CONQUEROR. 


A  TRAMPLED  battle  plain ! 

The  work  of  death  was  done; 
On  the  unburied  slain, 

Through  mist,  red  looked  the  sun  ; 
The  trumpet's  blare,  the  shout, 

The  quick  artillery's  roar, 
The  carnage  and  the  rout 

Shook  the  wide  field  no  more. 

Surrounded  by  the  dead, 

Wherever  strayed  his  eyes, 

His  gory  steed  his  bed, 

The  soldier  strove  to  rise. 


122  THE    CONQUEROR. 

Vain  was  the  effort  —  vain  ! 

The  death-wound  in  his  side, 
The  ebbing  blood,  the  pain, 

Life's  rallying  power  defied. 

"And  must  I,  then,"  he  said, 

"  With  all  my  dreams  of  fame, 
Of  hosts  to  conquest  led, 

Perish  without  a  name? 
O,  for  my  mother's  voice ! 

My  home,  my  native  sky ! 
And  her,  my  true  heart's  choice, 

For  whom  in  death  I  sigh !  " 

He  paused :  a  maid,  whose  hair 

Streamed  loosely  on  the  breeze, 
Sank  wounded  by  him  there; 

It  is  herself  he  sees ! 
Death,  thou  canst  not  appall ! 

Ambition,  quit  the  field ! 
Love  is  the  conqueror  —  all 

To  woman's  love  must  yield  ! 


123 


ADELAIDE'S    TRIUMPH. 


"  ADELAIDE,  come  stand  beside  me, 

Stand  beside  my  pillowed  head ;  — 
From  my  eyes  the  light  is  fading, 

From  my  cheek  the  hue  is  fled: 
Let  me  hold  thy  hand  so  dainty, 

Let  me  touch  thy  silky  hair; 
Ringlets  gray  and  fingers  wasted 

With  them  poorly  may  compare. 

"  Come,  and  let  compassion  summon 
Thoughts  of  ruth  to  move  thy  heart, 

Gentle  thoughts,  that,  full  of  pity, 
Take  the  contrite  sinner's  part; 


124  ADELAIDE'S  TRIUMPH. 

Reverential  recollections 

Of  His  words  who  came  to  save; 
Of  His  words  that  breathed  forgiveness, 

Of  His  mercy  that  forgave. 

"  Where  a  stately  stream  is  gliding, 

Near  a  slope  of  wooded  ground, 
Rises  Lord  De  Warrene's  mansion, 

Fairest  of  the  country  round : 
Eighteen  summers  have  I  counted, 

Since  its  widowed  master  brought 
To  this  roof  a  female  infant, — 

Here  a  foster-mother  sought. 

"  '  Too  much  care  thou  canst  not  show  her,' 

Said  he,  with  a  heavy  sigh ; 
'  For  to  give  the  dear  one  being 

Did  my  noble  lady  die.' 
'  Proud  am  I  to  tend  thy  daughter,' 

Answered  I  with  zealous  tone; 
But  I  started,  on  comparing 

That  sweet  infant  with  my  own. 


ADELAIDE'S  TRIUMPH.  125 

"  Child  of  health  and  matchless  beauty, 

Born  to  gladden,  seemed  the  one; 
While  my  own  poor  bud  lay  drooping, 

Ere  its  morning  was  begun. 
Lord  De  Warrene  left  his  daughter; 

But  an  evil  thought  had  sway 
In  my  soul,  before  he  claimed  her, 

Two  brief  summers  from  that  day. 

"  Do  not  clasp  my  hand  so  tightly ; 

Gaze  not  with  an  air  so  wild ; 
I'm  thy  foster-mother  only  — 

Yes !  thou  art  De  Warrene's  child  ! 
In  the  scroll  beneath  my  pillow, 

Proofs  that  none  will  question  find  ;  — 
All  I  can  of  reparation, 

Dying,  would  I  leave  behind." 

Wonder  at  the  strange  disclosure, 

Anguish  at  the  sight  of  death, 
In  the  maiden's  heart  contending, 

Seemed  to  battle  for  her  breath: 


126  ADELAIDE'S  TRIUMPH. 

But  a  step  was  heard  approaching, 
And  a  distant  door  unlatched; 

Shaking  off  those  stiffening  fingers, 
Eagerly  the  scroll  she  snatched. 

When  the  last  sad  rites  were  ended, 

In  that  room  she  stood  alone; 
Bare  the  rafters,  coarse  the  ceiling, 

And  the  floor  of  naked  stone. 
And  a  smile  of  bitter  meaning 

O'er  her  clouded  features  passed, 
As  that  treasured  scroll  she  opened, 

And  a  look  around  her  cast. 

Then  she  read,  and  finished  reading, 

And  her  passion  deeper  grew ; 
To  her  brow  the  ruby  mounted, 

From  her  eyes  the  lightning  flew. 
"  What !  "  she  murmured,  "  was  I  cheated 

Of  my  birth's  exalted  rights  — 
Of  a  lordly  sire's  affection, 

Of  a  stately  home's  delights? 


ADELAIDE'S  TRIUMPH.  127 

"  Was  I  made  to  herd  unduly 

With  the  poor  and  lowly-bred; 
Made  to  join  in  rustic  labors  — 

Rise  before  the  dawn  from  bed? 
Was  I  clothed  in  homely  raiment, 

Fed  on  plain  and  frugal  fare, 
I,  the  Lord  De  Warrene's  daughter, 

I,  the  Lord  De  Warrene's  heir? 

"  Has,  the  while,  a  mere  usurper  — 

A  discarded  peasant  child  — 
Filled  the  station  I  was  born  to, 

And  my  father's  heart  beguiled  ? 
Has  she  been  the  mansion's  lady, 

Robed  in  silks  with  jewels  rare, 
While  the  whole  of  my  adorning 

Was  a  wild  rose  for  my  hairT 

"  But  the  hour  of  retribution, 

Long  deferred,  at  length  has  come ; 

I  will  face  this  changeling  lady, 

And  a  word  shall  strike  her  dumb : 


128  ADELAIDE'S  TRIUMPH. 

I  will  say  to  knights  and  servants, 
'  Let  the  low  impostor  be ! 

And  your  true-born,  lawful  lady 

Clad  in  these  poor  garments,  see!' 

"  Then  to  Lord  De  Warrene  turning, 

Bold  in  my  attested  claim, 
Will  I  lay  the  proof  before  him, — 

Proof  of  her  maternal  shame ! 
Proudly  will  I  wait  his  answer, 

At  his  feet  in  reverence  kneel ; 
Then  my  triumph,  my  requital, 

She  shall  surely  see  and  feel ! " 

Thus,  in  menaces  impatient, 

Forth  the  maiden's  anger  broke; 
Eagerly  she  threw  her  mantle 

O'er  her  shoulders,  as  she  spoke; 
Then,  accoutred  for  a  journey, 

Hastened  from  that  mean  abode; 
And  threw  back  the  whitewashed  wicket, 

Opening  en  the  dusty  road. 


ADELAIDE'S  TRIUMPH.  129 

But  not  many  steps  she'd  taken, 

When  she  paused  and  looked  behind; 
There  the  rose-bush  she  had  planted, 

There  the  honey-suckle  twined. 
Do  they  mutely  seem  to  chide  her, 

That  she  turns  in  friendly  quest, 
Gathers  flowers  and  buds,  and  gives  them 

To  her  lily-shaming  breast  ? 

None  could  now  dispute  her  beauty, 

As  affection  lit  the  gloom 
In  those  eyes,  whose  tender  beaming 

Fell  upon  her  garden's  bloom. 
Shape,  and  mien,  and  chiselled  feature, 

Drooping  lash,  and  affluent  hair, — 
All  seemed  fairer  by  the  token, 

In  the  heart  was  something  fair. 

But  she  paused  a  moment  only; 

And,  when  she  upraised  her  head, 
Not  the  bough  relieved  from  pressure 

Springs  more  buoyant  than  her  tread. 
9 


130  ADELAIDE'S  TRIUMPH. 

Why  on  yonder  wooded  mountain 
Hath  she  fixed  her  straining  eyes? 

Close  behind  that  purple  summit 
Lord  De  Warrene's  mansion  lies. 


^tcontr  ID  art* 

IN  a  parlor  wide  and  lofty, 

Where  the  summer  breezes  came, 
Sat  the  lady  of  the  mansion, — 

Constance  was  the  lady's  name. 
Covered  were  the  walls  with  velvet, — 

Blue  the  tint,  but  heavenly  light; 
Nailed  with  frequent  stars,  all  golden, 

Mimicking  the  stars  of  night. 

And  a  mirror  reached,  broad  gleaming, 
From  the  ceiling  to  the  floor; 

Set  between  two  Gothic  windows, 
Fronting  an  emblazoned  door; 


ADELAIDE'S  TRIUMPH.  131 

And  a  carpet,  rich  and  downy, 

Toil  of  many  a  Turkish  loom, 
Leaf  and  bud  and  flower  inwoven, 

Lent  its  lustre  to  the  room. 

Light  the  maiden's  silken  labor  ; 

Yet  she  quickly  threw  it  by, 
And  her  weary  hands  enfolding, 

Heaved  a  languor-laden  sigh. 
Tall  and  slender  was  her  stature,  — 

Blue  her  eyes  and  pale  her  cheek, 
And  the  language  of  her  features, 

Like  Madonna's,  pure  and  meek  ! 

As  she  leaned,  in  idle  dreaming, 

Where  the  sunset  breeze  blew  cool, 
Came  a  mingled  sound  of  voices 

From  the  marble  vestibule; 
And  a  lackey,  in  attendance, 

Uttered  words  as  if  to  chide  ; 
While  a  youthful  female  stranger 

In  a  queenly  tone  replied. 


ADELAIDE'S  TRIUMPH. 

With  her  words  the  door  was  opened; 

And,  in  humble  garb  arrayed, 
In  the  presence  of  the  lady 

Stood  a  fair  and  panting  maid  : 
Of  a  long,  unaided  journey 

Shoes  and  raiment  bore  the  trace; 
And  exertion's  humid  crimson 

Like  a  wet  rose  made  her  face. 

With  fatigue  her  limbs  were  failing, 

Passion  had  her  brain  o'erwrought ; 
And  she  leaned  against  the  wainscot 

To  recall  the  power  of  thought. 
"  Tell  me,"  said  the  Lady  Constance, 

"  Whom,  sweet  maiden,  would'st  thou  seek  ? 
Tell  me  why  thy  breast  is  heaving; 

Why  this  crimson  paints  thy  cheek. 

"  But  I'll  tax  thee  not  to  answer, 

For  thou'rt  weak  and  trembling  still ; 

Thou  shalt  come  and  rest  beside  me, 
And  instruct  me  at  thy  will." 


ADELAIDE'S  TRIUMPH.  133 

Then,  her  flexile  waist  encircling, 

Constance  led  her  to  a  chair, 
And  with  kerchief  fine  and  fragrant, 

Wiped  her  cheek  and  forehead  fair. 

Adelaide,  in  silent  wonder, 

Every  look  and  motion  scanned ; 
Noted  well  the  lady's  features, 

And  her  thin,  transparent  hand. 
She  had  dreamed  of  glances  haughty, 

Listened  for  a  scornful  word  ; 
But  she  saw  an  angel  smiling, 

And  an  angel's  accents  heard. 

"I'll  not  chide  her,"  thought  the  maiden; 

"  Soft  and  mild  shall  be  my  tone ; 
For  I  should  at  least  repay  her 

With  a  kindness  like  her  own." 
Then,  the  lady's  hand  uplifting, 

Thrice  she  strove  to  tell  her  tale; 
Thrice  her  heart,  the  purpose  stifling, 

On  the  brink  made  utterance  fail. 


134  ADELAIDE'S  TRIUMPH. 

But  she  rose  and  looked  around  her, 

Over  all  that  rich  saloon; 
Round  on  many  a  gilded  moulding, 

And  on  many  a  silk  festoon. 
And  the  maiden  stepped  elated 

O'er  the  carpet's  gay  design, 
As  the  thought  swelled  in  her  bosom, 

"  All  these  glittering  gauds  are  mine ! " 

With  that  glance  and  that  reflection 

Came  her  half-retreating  mood ; 
And,  with  footstep  light  and  hasty, 

She  returned  where  Constance  stood. 
But  as  words  for  vent  were  struggling, 

In  her  better  nature's  spite, 
Suddenly  a  beauteous  vision 

Rose  before  her  wandering  sight. 

'Twas  the  figure  of  a  matron, 

Who  with  mild  and  saint-like  grace, 

And  all  traits  of  mortal  beauty, 
Seemed  to  gaze  into  her  face. 


ADELAIDE'S  TRIUMPH.  135 

'Twas  so  lifelike,  that  she  started; 

But  the  Lady  Constance  said, 
"  'Tis  a  painting  of  my  mother, 

Of  my  mother,  who  is  dead." 

"  Of  thy  mother  ?  "  sighed  the  maiden, 

Gazing  on  the  picture  still. 
"Ay,  thou  strange  one,"  answered  Constance; 

"Why  do  tears  thy  eyelids  fill?" 
"  Ask  not !  "  Adelaide  besought  her ; 

And  upon  her  knees  she  fell, 
Bowed  upon  her  hands  her  forehead, 

And  let  tears  her  passion  tell. 

"Hark!"  exclaimed  the  Lady  Constance, — 

"Hark!  I  hear  my  father's  tread!" 
And  she  glided  from  the  parlor, 

While  her  pallid  cheek  grew  red. 
Then  uplooked  the  kneeling  maiden, 

On  that  pictured  face  once  more : 
"  O,  my  mother  dear,"  she  murmured, 

"  Hear  me,  guide  me,  I  implore! 


ADELAIDE'S  TRIUMPH. 

"  Well  I  know  I  may  not  meet  thee 

In  thy  happy  home  above, 
Till  each  proud  and  selfish  feeling 

Is  cast  out  by  perfect  love; 
Arid  I  fear  the  thoughts  are  evil 

Which  within  my  bosom  fight, 
For  thy  smile  hath  waked  my  spirit, 

And  'tis  groping  for  the  right. 

"  Slender  is  my  store  of  knowledge, 

With  the  poor  and  simple  bred; 
But  I  know  we  live  more  fully 

When  this  clog  of  flesh  is  dead ; 
And  that  God  is  just  and  gracious, 

Every  day  I  feel  the  more : 
O,  my  mother,  bid  him  help  me,  — 

Hear  me,  guide  me,  I  implore  ! " 

Rising  then,  she  brushed  the  tear-drop 
From  her  cheek's  vermilion  bloom, 

As,  with  Constance,  Lord  De  Warrene 
Entered  hand  in  hand  the  room. 


ADELAIDE'S  TRIUMPH.  137 

Noble  not  in  title  only, 

But  in  heart  and  form  he  seemed , 
And  the  gentleness  of  manhood 

From*  his  open  features  beamed. 

To  a  dim  recess  withdrawing, 

Adelaide  observed  him  well ; 
Heard  the  fond  paternal  welcome 

From  his  ready  lips  that  fell ; 
Marked  the  love-lit  glance  responsive 

In  the  lady's  pleading  eyes  : 
Were  the  twain  not  child  and  father, 

Theirs  were  even  holier  ties. 

And  a  struggle,  brief  but  bitter, 

Shook  the  maiden's  inmost  soul; 
And  from  her  fast-heaving  bosom 

She  half  drew  the  fatal  scroll. 
But  the  memory  of  her  mother 

Came  to  save  her  on  the  verge; 
And  she  hid  the  tell-tale  parchment 

With  her  humble  scarf  of  serge. 


138  ADELAIDE'S  TRIUMPH. 

Of  a  clear  and  steadfast  purpose 

Now  her  kindling  visage  tells ; 
And  the  majesty  of  Conscience 

Every  recreant  pleading  quells. 
Smile,  ye  ever  watchful  angels !  — 

She  has  won  the  heavenly  palm ; 
And  a  peace  the  world  can  give  not 

Makes  her  confident  and  calm. 

In  his  flaming  bush,  the  martyr 

May  a  lofty  courage  show ; 
With  a  pure,  intrepid  ardor, 

Freedom's  chief  to  battle  go ; 
But,  my  maiden,  in  the  combat 

Of  thy  motives,  good  and  bad, 
Thou  hast  shown  as  true  a  mettle, 

Thou  as  great  a  triumph  had ! 


ADELAIDE'S  TRIUMPH.  139 


i  v  tt  $  a  1  1  «. 


AND  was  this  the  end  of  trial  ? 

Never  more  did  pride  assail? 
Did  her  spirit,  unrepining, 

Never  waver,  never  quail  ? 
Ah  !  no  lack  of  human  leaven 

Was  there  in  the  maiden's  mould; 
She  could  feel  the  charms  of  station, 

She  could  prize  the  power  of  gold. 

Goodness  is  no  stable  treasure 

You  within  the  heart  may  lock  ; 
Like  the  air,  it  grovveth  purer 

From  the  wind,  the  thunder-shock. 
All  its  life  in  action  lieth; 

Without  evil  thoughts  to  try, 
Without  buffets,  without  sorrows, 

Ere  maturing  it  would  die. 


140  ADELAIDE'S  TRIUMPH. 

Handmaid  to  the  Lady  Constance 

Now  had  Adelaide  become. 
She  was  slighted  by  the  many, 

Noted  for  her  face  by  some; 
And  at  length  a  noble  gallant  — 

How  could  such  a  gallant  fail  1  — 
Knelt,  and,  with  a  graceful  candor, 

Breathed  a  strangely-pleasing  tale. 

"  I  was  sent  to  woo  thy  mistress," 

Said  he,  with  a  gentle  smile; 
"  And  I  might  have  loved  her  duly, 

Had  I  not  seen  thee  the  while. 
If,  through  lowly  birth  and  station, 

Thus  thy  modest  graces  shine, 
How  would' st  thou  adorn  my  household, 

Could  I  make  thee  wholly  mine ! 

"  Much  I  may  not  boast  of  riches,  — 
Mine  a  younger  son's  estate; 

And  I  brave  a  father's  anger, 
Asking  thee  to  share  my  fate. 


ADELAIDE'S  TRIUMPH.  141 

But  a  loving,  heart  I  bring  thee, 

And,  wilt  thou  its  love  repay, 
Hands  to  toil  for  thee  I  offer, 

And  a  mind  to  win  my  way." 

O,  but  then  her  courage  tottered, 

And  hot  tears  her  eyelids  wet, 
As  new-springing  Love  with  Duty 

In  a  doubtful  conflict  met ! 
How  one  little  word  could  level 

All  that  barred  her  from  his  side! 
But  the  word  remained  unspoken, 

And  his  proffer  she  denied. 

"Fare  thee  well!"  he  said,  and  parted, 

Fame  or  fortune  to  pursue  ; 
And  the  light  that  with  him  vanished, 

Often,  often  did  she  rue. 
Yet,  upon  her  hours  of  grieving, 

Peace  would  like  a  dove  descend, 
When  her  own  true  heart  she  questioned, 

And  found  Conscience  was  her  friend. 
16 


142  ADELAIDE'S  TRIUMPH. 

But  a  change  was  now  impending 

In  the  maiden's  outward  lot ; 
For  her  chastened  soul  no  longer 

Showed  the  one  corroding  spot  • 
Bleached  beneath  the  winds  of  trial, 

Washed  by  sorrow's  clearing  rain, 
On  its  heavenly-shining  raiment 

Lay  no  trace  of  earthly  stain. 

So  when  use  had  made  her  happy 

In  her  self-forgetful  sphere,  — 
When  no  sigh  for  earthly  grandeur 

Wakened  the  regretful  tear,  — 
Smitten  by  a  mortal  illness 

Suddenly  her  mistress  lay; 
Arid  the  maiden  watched  beside  her, 

Ever  fondly,  night  and  day. 

But  it  pleased  our  heavenly  Father, 
In  his  mercy,  to  dismiss 

Constance  to  a  brighter  region, 
To  a  world  of  purer  bliss : 


ADELAIDE'S  TRIUMPH.  143 

And  to  Adelaide  she  whispered, 

Smiling  with  her  latest  breath, 
"  We  shall  meet  again,  my  sister : 

A  sweet  summoner  is  Death ! " 

When  the  bell  had  finished  tolling, 

And  the  sod  had  spread  its  green 
Over  all  of  form  and  feature 

Mortal  eye  had  ever  seen, — 
Where  her  flowers  and  birds  seemed  waiting 

In  that  consecrated  room, 
Knelt  the  gray-haired  Lord  De  Warrene, 

Knelt  in  solitary  gloom. 

"O,  my  gentle  child,"  he  murmured, 

"  Can  I  see  thy  face  no  more  ? 
Little  did  my  heart  conjecture, 

Thou  so  soon  wouldst  go  before ! 
All  my  age  might  hope  of  comfort 

In  thy  fragile  life  was  bound : 
Where  shall  now  Affection  wander, 

Where  a  love  like  thine  be  found  ? " 


144  ADELAIDE'S  TRIUMPH. 

Trembling  in  each  limb  and  fibre, 

Faltering  as  she  slowly  slept, 
Adelaide  approached  her  father, 

Sank  beside  him  as  he  wept; 
And  ere  he  could  know  her  present, 

Or  could  hear  her  timorous  tread, 
She  had  placed  the  scroll  before  him, 

And  all  eagerly  he  read. 

With  a  cry  of  wild  amazement, 

Suddenly  he  stood  upright; 
On  the  maiden  gazed,  and  drew  her 

Nearer,  nearer  to  the  light. 
"  Child  !  "  he  gasped,  "  thou  bring' st  a  title 

Such  as  scrolls  could  not  contain; 
In  that  smile  thy  mother  liveth, 

In  that  face  thy  rights  are  plain ! " 

And  with  tears  of  tender  transport, 
He  beheld  her  and  embraced; 

Twined  his  fingers  in  her  ringlets, 
Each  familiar  charm  retraced. 


ADELAIDE'S  TRIUMPH.  145 

But  when  came  the  slow  conception 

Of  her  trial's  full  extent, 
O'er  and  o'er  again  he  clasped  her, 

And  with  love  was  reverence  blent. 

"  O,  how  blest  beyond  deserving, 

Am  I  in  this  joy ! "  he  said ; 
"  I,  who  questioned  Heaven's  disposal, 

I,  who  deemed  all  comfort  fled ! 
How  hath  God's  own  hand  repaid  me 

The  bereavement  I  deplore! 
If  he  took  an  angel  from  me, 

'Twas  a  seraph  to  restore !  " 

Could  another  grace  be  added 

To  the  triumph  of  the  maid, 
I  might  tell  thee  what  befell  her 

As  the  Lady  Adelaide; 
How  that  belted  earls  and  barons, 

High  in  honor  arid  command, 
Came,  with  royal  state  to  back  them, 

And  were  suppliants  for  her  hand; 


146  ADELAIDE'S  TRIUMPH. 

How  no  hope,  though  e'er  so  distant, 

Could  the  boldest  of  them  gain ; 
When,  at  length,  a  youth  unnoted 

Sued,  and  did  not  sue  in  vain ! 
And,  while  belted  earl  and  baron 

Smothered  as  they  might  their  gall, 
How  the  rumor  was  repeated, 

He  had  loved  her  first  of  all. 

But  my  tale  is  fitly  ended. 

We  may  safely  trust  her  now. 
Wealth  and  station  cannot  alter 

That  serenely  radiant  brow. 
Sin  may  tempt  and  sorrow  wound  her, 

Still  she'll  conquer  in  the  strife  ; 
And  the  self-denying  maiden 

Be  transcended  in  the  wife. 


147 


THE    DRAMA'S    RACE. 

SPOKEN    BY  MISS    ELLEN    TREE, AT    THE    PARK    THEATRE. 


THANKS!     There  is  no  illusion  here: 
Wit,  Wisdom,  Beauty,  all  appear, 

And  grace  our  house  to-night ;  — 
Still  striving,  as  we  do,  to  please, 
A  rich  requital,  smiles  like  these  — 

This  fair  inspiring  sight! 

Ah!  as  in  boxes  and  in  pit, 

A  goodly  company,  ye  sit, 

Are  there  no  conjured  shapes  that  flit 

Your  fancy's  gaze  before? 
Shapes  which  this  storied  dome  recalls, 
Which  start  from  these  half-conscious  walls, 

Past  pleasures  to  restore? 


148  THE  DRAMA'S  RACE. 

In  worthiest  state,  I  see  them  rise  — 
The  brave,  the  beautiful,  the  wise, 

The  guilty,  and  the  good  — 
The  Drama's  race !     They  come,  they  pass, 
In  crowds,  o'er  Memory's  magic  glass,  — 

A  mingled  multitude! 

"Angels  and  ministers  of  grace 
Defend  us  ! "     Is  it  Hamlet's  face, 

Hamlet  the  Dane,  I  see? 
He  bends  his  melancholy  eyes 
On  vacancy,  and,  hark !  he  sighs, 

"To  be,  or  not  to  be!" 

Indignant  Hotspur  rushes  by, 

And  "Mortimer!"  is  still  his  cry  — 

Nought  can  his  rage  restrain. 
Shylock  gasps  forth,  "Is  that  the  law?" 
Old  Lear  puts  on  his  crown  of  straw; 

"  Richard's  himself  again  !  " 


THE  DRAMA'S  RACE.  149 

Ah,  Romeo !  Romeo !  is  it  thou  ? 
Fair  Juliet  hears  thy  honeyed  vow 

Beneath  the  moon's  pale  beam ; 
And  lo !  Macbeth,  with  blood-stained  hands ! 
And  see  where  black  Othello  stands, 

"Perplexed  in  the  extreme!" 

"Run,  run,  Orlando!"     Rosalind 
Thy  tributary  verse  shall  find  — 

"  The  inexpressive  she !  " 
Fear  not  to  tell  her  of  thy  flame ; 
And  do  not  fail  to  carve  her  name 

Upon  the  nearest  tree. 

"Farewell!  farewell!"     'Tis  Jaffier  speaks; 
And  wretched  Belvidera  shrieks 

As  only  wretches  can. 
Ha,  Benedick !  thou'rt  caught  at  last ! 
Fair  Beatrice  the  net  hath  cast  — 

Thou'lt  be  "  the  married  man." 


150  THE  DRAMA'S  RACE. 

Lo,  Brutus,  with  a  fierce  appeal, 
O'er  lost  Lucretia  lifts  the  steel, 

And  shouts,  "No  more  be  slaves!" 
And  stern  Virginius,  pale  and  wild, 
P'olds  to  his  breast  his  darling  child ;  — 

Then,  thus  !  —  her  honor  saves  ! 

"  Ho,  Ion  !     'Tis  thy  father's  life  !  " 
He  grasps  the  sacrificial  knife, 

And  seems  transfixed  with  wonder ; 
And,  as  the  fates  of  Argos  roll 
Their  lurid  terrors  o'er  his  soul, 

Exclaims,  "Was  not  that  thunder?" 

What  an  astounded  group  is  seen, 
Where  falls  my  Lady  Teazle's  screen  — 

To  none  but  Charles  a  joke ! 
There  Julia  mourns  her  fatal  choice ; 
And,  list!  "That  voice!     'Tis  Clifford's  voice, 

If  ever  Clifford  spoke  !  " 


THE  DRAMA'S  RACE.  151 

Hoping  he  don't  "intrude,"  Paul  Pry, 
With  his  umbrella,  comes  to  spy 

What  mischief  may  be  done. 
Ha,  Ollapod !  for  human  ills, 
Your  jokes  are  better  than  your  pills  — 

"  Good  sir,  I  owe  you  one ! " 


Pizarro,  Douglas,  William  Tell, 
Pauline,  Sir  Giles  —  I  know  you  well, 

As  o'er  the  scene  ye  flock ; 
Arid  Bardolph,  with  a  cup  of  sack ; 
And  there  —  "Well,  go  thy  ways,  old  Jack," 

And  fight  "  by  Shrewsbury  clock." 

But,  hark !  the  impatient  prompter  stamps ;  — 
A  hint  I've  been  before  the  lamps 

A  reasonable  space ; 
And,  at  that  sound,  the  airy  throng, 
Like  guilty  creatures,  crowd  along, 

And,  fading,  leave  no  trace. 


THE  DRAMA'S  RACE. 

The  spell  is  broken  :  —  but,  before 
I  heed  the  summons,  one  word  more, 

If  patience  yet  endures  : 
Till  all  its  stars  have  disappeared, 
May  still  the  Drama's  cause  be  cheered 

By  hands  and  lips  like  yours  ! 


153 


FAREWELL    ADDRESS. 


SPOKEN    BY    MISS    ELLEN    TREE    AT    THE    PARK    THEATRE. 


THE  curtain  falls  —  closed  is  the  Drama's  page  : 
Why  lingers  Beatrice  upon  the  stage  ? 
Away,  illusion !  —  this  is  not  thy  sphere  — 
The  sigh  is  faithful,  and  the  grief  sincere. 
Should  utterance  tremble,  should  the  tear-drop  start, 
They  will  but  echo  and  o'erflow  the  heart. 

Three  years,  my  friends  —  how  brief  they  seem  !  — 

have  fled 

Since  on  your  shore  'twas  my  good  hap  to  tread ; 
And  if  some  anxious  fears  were  mine  at  first, 
How  on  my  soul  your  liberal  welcome  burst ! 
Ye  cheered  my  efforts  —  took  me  by  the  hand : 
No  more  was  I  a  stranger  in  the  land. 


154  FAREWELL    ADDRESS. 

A  stranger!     Why?  on  every  side  I  heard 
My  native  accents  in  each  spoken  word; 
And  every  greeting  which  my  toil  beguiled 
Was  from  the  "  well  of  English  undefined." 
The  mighty  poet,  whose  creations  bright 
The  Drama's  spell  evoked  for  you  to-night, — 
Did  I  not  find  his  memory  and  his  strains 
Here  as  familiar  as  on  Stratford's  plains? 
Your  sires  and  he  one  Saxon  stock  could  claim, 
And  ye  with  us  partake  his  endless  fame. 

Ah  !  as  the  loiterer  by  some  pleasant  way, 
Though  duty  bid  him  haste,  would  fain  delay,— 
Review  the  prospect  beautiful  —  retrace 
Each  suribright  feature  and  each  shadowy  grace, — 
So  would  I  linger  —  so  would  I  forget, 
It  is,  alas !  to  part,  that  we  have  met. 

Yet,  ere  I  go,  desponding  Memory  asks, 
Is  this  the  last  of  my  too  happy  tasks  ? 
Shall  I  no  more  a  scene  like  this  behold, 
Or  tread  these  boards,  in  your  approval  bold? 
Too  strong  the  chance  that  it  will  e'en  be  so  — 
Fate  answers,  "  Ay  !  "  but  ah  !  Hope  whispers,  "  No ! 


FAREWELL    ADDRESS.  155 

And  yet,  though  mute  the  voice,  and  closed  the  scene ; 
Though  oceans  stretch,  and  tempests  roar  between ; 
Whatever  hues  may  mark  my  future  lot, 
Still  let  me  dream  that  I'm  not  all  forgot; 
That  Shakspeare's  fair  abstractions  may  restore 
A  thought  of  her  who  once  their  trophies  wore ; 
That  Talfourd's  pathos,  Knowles's  tragic  art, 
Some  wavering  recollection  may  impart  — 
A  look,  a  tone,  that  sympathy  impressed, 
That  was  the  touch  of  nature  to  your  breast. 

But  heedless  Time  hath  brought  our  parting  near : 
Why  do  I  still,  superfluous,  linger  here? 
Ah !  think  not  ever  an  unreal  part 
So  tasked  my  powers,  and  filled  my  beating  heart! 
I  may  not  speak  the  thoughts  that  in  it  swell, — 
I  can  but  say,  kind,  generous  friends,  farewell! 


DRAMATIC    PIECES. 


DRAMATIC    PIECES. 


THE    CANDID    CRITIC. 


CHARACTERS. 

DIONTSIUS, King  of  Syracuse. 

PHILOXENUS, A  Poet  and  Critic. 

ALASTOR, Secretary  to  Dionysius. 

PHORMIO, An  Athenian. 

XANTHE, Daughter  of  Philoxenus. 

Guards,  Parasites,  Executioners,  Sfc. 


SCENE    I. 
The  Palace   Grounds  in  Syracuse.     Enter  PHORMIO. 

PHORMIO. 

A  RESPITE  !  a  reprieve  !     The  gods  be  thanked, 
I  have  escaped  at  last !     O,  Phormio,  Phormio ! 
Did  Fortune  snatch  thee  from  the  howling  waves 
That  gnash  their  white  teeth  on  the  rocks  of  Scylla, 


160  THE    CANDID   CRITIC. 

Or  coil  their  giant  tresses  round  Charybdis, 
To  put  thy  patience  to  severer  tests? 
O,  which  way  can  I  fly  from  Syracuse? 
How  rid  me  of  the  imminent  infliction? 
Enter  PHILOXENUS. 
PHILOXENUS. 

Ho,  Phormio!     Is  thy  haste  so  very  urgent, 
Thou  canst  not  tarry  for  a  friend's  embrace? 

PHORMIO. 
Philoxenus!     Indeed  I'm  glad  to  see  thee. 

PHILOXENUS. 

And  I  to  welcome  thee  to  Syracuse. 
When  didst  leave  Athens  ?     Who  bore  off  the  prizes 
At  the  Olympic  games  ?     Thou'rt  out  of  breath : 
Come,  rest  with  me  awhile  beside  this  fountain. 

PHORMIO. 

Not  there  !     Not  on  the  palace  steps !     Remain  ;  — 
I  shall  be  better  instantly.     O  tyrant, 
Remorseless  in  thy  rancor! 

PHILOXENUS. 

Not  so  loud ! 
Thy  dulcet  compliments  may  reach  the  ears 


THE    CANDID   CRITIC.  161 

Of  Dionysius.     More  than  two  he  ovvneth. 
Hast  thou  already  felt  his  cruelty  — 
Thou,  an  Athenian? 

PHORMIO. 

Ay,  and  yet  am  doomed 
To  feel  it  more.     O,  torment  most  refined! 

PHILOXENUS. 

What!  hath  he  tried  his  newly-fashioned  scourge 
Upon  thy  back  1 

PHORMIO. 
•  O,  something  worse  than  that ! 

PHILOXENUS. 

Say'st  thou?     Perhaps,  then,  he  prescribed  a  bath 
Of  .molten  lead:  I've  known  it  efficacious 
In  checking  many  troublesome  eruptions. 

PHORMIO. 

No:  that  were  honey-dew  to  what  I've  suffered. 

PHILOXENUS. 

Thou  wast  not  crammed  into  a  cask  of  spikes, 
And  rolled  down  hill  ? 

PHORMIO. 

'Twere  pastime,  merry  pastime, 

Compared  with  the  extreme  barbarity! 
11 


162  THE    CANDID    CRITIC. 

PHILOXENUS. 

Thy  flesh  has  not  been  torn  with  red-hot  pincers, 
Nor  peeled  in  crimson  ribbons  by  his  engines; 
Thy  limbs  have  not  been  stretched  upon  the  rack, 
Nor  thine  eyes  seared  by  plates  of  heated  steel :  — 
Which  of  his  little  toys  of  torture  was  it 
He  chose  for  dalliance  in  his  cheefful  mood? 

PHORMIO. 

Give  thy  imagination  freer  rein: 
Sees  it  nought  further  in  the  realm  of  horrors  ? 

PHILOXENUS. 

Indeed,  I  cannot  guess  thy  punishment, 
Unless  —  but,  no!  there's  life  left  in  thee  yet. 

PHORMIO. 
Unless  what,  would'st  thou  say? 

PHILOXENUS. 

I  know  of  nothing 
Beyond  these  charming  hospitalities, 
Unless  he  made  thee  hear  his  poetry. 

PHORMIO. 
Thou'st  hit  the  mark ! 

PHILOXENUS. 

My  miserable  friend ! 


THE    CANDID    CRITIC.  163 

PHORMIO. 

Ah  me !     You  poets  have  imagined  tortures :  — 

The  pool  of  Tantalus,  Ixion's  wheel, 

Prometheus  with  the  vulture  at  his  vitals, 

Procrustes'  bed,  the  bull  of  Phalaris  — 

All  these  you  may  consider  quite  ingenious ; 

But,  pshaw !   they're  bubbles,  straws,  and  thistle-down, 

To  what  your  Dionysius  has  invented. 

Gods !  he  did  make  me  hear  his  tragedy  — 

Tragic  in  nothing  save  the  dire  infliction ! 

With  all  my  nerves  braced  to  the  serious  task, 

I  sat  and  listened ;  but,  before  the  scroll 

Was  half  completed,  such  an  earthquake  yawn 

Burst  from  me,  that  the  wordy  tyrant  started, 

And  shouted  for  his  guards.     As  they  rushed  in, 

Alastor,  the  young  scribe,  in  hurried  whispers, 

Suggested  an  excuse  that  saved  my  life : 

Kneeling  before  the  monarch,  I  protested 

That  the  strange  pathos  of  the  well-wrought  scene 

Had,  by  its  art,  so  won  upon  my  senses, 

Most  inadvertently  I  groaned  aloud. 

Ha,  ha!     Forgetting  all  his  guilty  fears 


164  THE    CANDID    CRITIC. 

Of  ambushed  cut-throats  and  disguised  assassins, 
He  raised  me  in  his  arms,  and  kissed  my  cheek : 
Nor  would  he  suffer  me  to  quit  the  palace 
Till  I  had  promised  to  return  to-night 
To  hear  the  rest  of  his  vile  tragedy. 
My  friend,  shall  I  survive  it? 

PHILOXENUS. 

Thou  wilt  have 

At  least  a  partner  in  thy  misery  : 
Know  that  I  too  am  summoned  to  the  palace, 
Doubtless  to  be  a  victim  with  thyself; 
But,  should  this  royal  metromaniac  ask 
My  poor  opinion,  frankly  will  I  give  it. 

PHORMIO. 

Nay,  thou  would'st  only  jeopardize  thy  life  :  — 
His  weakness  'tis  to  be  esteemed  a  poet  ; 
And,  to  sink  irony,  'tis  surely  better 
That  he  should  murder  metaphors  on  parchment 
Than  stain  the  block  with  massacres  of  men. 
So,  tell  him,  if  thou  wilt,  that  he's  no  soldier  ; 
That  he  knows  nothing  of  the  art  of  war, 
Nothing  of  all  the  useful  arts  of  peace, 


THE    CANDID   CRITIC.  165 

And  that  he  daily,  hourly,  violates 

His  duties  to  the  gods,  the  state,  the  people ; 

But  do  not  —  do  not  criticize  his  verses. 

PHILOXENUS. 

Or  I'll  be  silent  or  avow  the  truth. 
Wilt  thou  be  at  the  palace? 

PHORMIO. 

For  thy  sake 
Will  I  be  there.     Heighho! 

PHILOXENUS. 

Nay,  smile,  my  friend ! 

Great  sorrows  have  their  lessons;  and  the  gods 
Would  teach  us,  by  this  dispensation,  patience. 

[Exeunt. 

Enter  ALASTOR  and  XANTHE. 
ALASTOR. 

There  goes  thy  father,  Xanthe!  I  implore  thee, 
Go  try  once  more  to  change  his  stubborn  purpose. 
Tell  him  the  king  himself  approves  our  nuptials, 
And  promises  to  grace  them  with  his  presence. 

XANTHE. 

Already  once  to-day  I've  sued  to  him  ; 
But  neither  tears  nor  blandishments  availed. 


166  THE    CANDID    CRITIC. 

ALASTOR. 

Obdurate  parent ! 

XANTHE. 

Do  not  call  him  so! 
In  all  things  is  he  liberal  and  most  kind. 

ALASTOR. 

O !  thou  may'st  think  him  kind  —  in  all  things  kind 

Kind  in  his  opposition  to  our  nuptials  ; 

But  I,  who  love  not  in  so  cool  a  fashion, 

Chafe  at  this  unexplained  impediment  — 

Nay,  sweet !  I  meant  not  to  be  harsh.     Look  up ! 

XANTHE. 

Why  wilt  thou  vex  me  with  thy  doubts,  Alastor? 

ALASTOR. 

Why  not  remove  at  once  all  cause  for  doubt? 
Become  in  truth  my  own,  without  regard 
To  thy  allegiance  elsewhere  ? 

XANTHE. 

No,  Alastor, 

Not  for  my  life  would  I  deceive  my  father ; 
For,  since  I  lost  my  mother,  he  hath  been 
Doubly  a  parent  to  me,  and  I  owe  him 
Double  devotion,  gratitude,  obedience. 


THE    CANDID   CRITIC.  167 

ALASTOR. 

Canst  tell  me  wherein  lies  his  enmity 

To  our  alliance?     Am  I  stamped  by  nature 

With  any  vile  deformity  of  person  ? 

Have  I  disgraced  my  name,  or  marred  my  fortune? 

Am  I  in  any  way  unworthy  of  thee? 

XANTHE. 

No,  no !     Thou'rt  all  that  honor  could  desire. 

ALASTOR. 

Then,  say,  what  is  this  Pelion  piled  on  Ossa, 
That  towers  between  our  fates  ? 

XANTHE. 

My  father  tells  me, 

That  'tis  not  to  thyself  he  has  objection, 
But  to  thy  occupation. 

ALASTOR. 

Occupation  ! 

Chief  secretary  to  the  king  himself, 
And  yet  the  obstacle  my  occupation? 

XANTHE. 

Wert  thou,  he  says,  chief  cook,  or  groom,  or  scullion, 
So  that  we  loved,  he'd  not  oppose  our  union ; 


168  THE    CANDID    CRITIC. 

But  that  to  be  the  tyrant's  cruelest  agent, 
The  hired  transcriber  of  his  fluent  doggerel, 
Is  a  disgrace,  in  which  he  cannot  share. 
There  !  I've  dared  tell  thee  all. 

ALASTOR. 

Thy  father  is- 

Ah!  'tis  a  hinderance  so  delectable, 
And  thou  proclaim'st  it  with  such  gravity, 
That  laughter  gets  the  better  of  vexation. 

XANTHE. 

Thou  tak'st  it  merrily. 

ALASTOR. 

Be  not  offended  ; 

For  I  rejoice,  with  all  my  heart,  at  finding 
The  obstacle  not  insurmountable. 
Go  to  thy  father,  Xanthe ;  and  make  known, 
That,  for  thy  dearest  sake,  I'll  straight  resign 
My  present  post;  and,  should  propitious  fate 
Break  a  groom's  neck,  or  suffocate  a  scullion, 
Or  give  some  cook  a  surfeit  that  shall  end  him, 
I'll  instantly  apply  to  Dionysius 
For  —  for  promotion. 


THE    CANDID    CKITIC.  169 

XANTHE. 

Nay,  I'll  plead  once  more 
In  our  behalf,  nor  urge  that  hard  condition. 
Farewell,  Alastor. 

ALASTOR. 

May  the  gods  protect  thee  ! 

Farewell,  true  heart !     Bring  back  a  gracious  answer. 

[Exeunt  severally. 

SCENE   II. 

An  Apartment    in  the  Palace.      DIONYSIUS    seated,  perusing   a 
Scroll.     Present,  Parasites  and  Guards. 

DIONYSIUS. 

Ah,  here's  true  inspiration  !     Dorian  numbers, 
That  charm  the  ear  with  limpid  melody, 
And  shining  thoughts  forged  in  poetic  fire! 
I  marvel  not  that  the  Athenian  youth, 
Raised  on  the  pinions  of  my  soaring  fancy, 
Was  terror-stricken  at  his  exaltation, 
And  vented  all  unconsciously  his  wonder. 
Here  is  the  verse  that  so  in  wrapped  his  soul. 


170  THE    CANDID    CRITIC. 

FIRST    PARASITE. 

Is  it,  most  mighty  liege,  but  mightier  poet, 
That  passage  which  thy  majesty  vouchsafed 
Graciously  to  rehearse,  the  other  day, 
Where  Polymestor,  of  his  sight  deprived, 
Heaps  curses  on  the  ruthless  dames  of  Troy? 
O,  that  indeed  was  beautiful !  —  most  grand  ! 
Methought  I  never  heard  a  more  divine  — 
A  more — Your  majesty!  — 

DIONYSIUS. 

Dolt!  dotard!  driveller! 
By  all  the  gods  forsaken  and  accursed  ! 
'Twas  from  Euripides  —  that  feeble  passage:  — 
I  but  compared  it  with  the  imprecation 
Which,  in  my  poem,  I  make  Ajax  utter 
Against  the  sons  of  Atreus.     Tasteless  blockhead ! 
Since  thou'rt  so  charmed  with  Polymestor's  ravings, 
Thou  shalt   partake   his   doom.     Ho!    guards!     The 

quarries  ! 

There  let  the  varlet  study  to  distinguish 
Between  Euripides  and  Dionysius. 

[First  Parasite  is  dragged  away. 


THE    CANDID    CRITIC.  171 

SECOND    PARASITE. 

In  sooth,  my  liege,  thy  sentence  was  too  lenient; 
But  'tis  thy  failing  —  clemency. 

DIONYSIUS. 

Be  silent ! 

Who  asked  thy  comments,  babbler,  on  my  failings? 
Was  ever  king  so  hedged  by  fleering  fools'? 

Enter  PHORMIO  and  PHILOXENCS. 
Aha  !  my  young  Athenian  !     Give  you  welcome ! 
Philoxenus,  we  must  be  better  friends. 
Be  seated,  gentlemen.     The  feast  is  ready  — 
Ambrosial  meats — an  intellectual  feast. 

PHILOXENUS,    (aside.} 

Would  that  I  were  an  intellectual  ostrich! 

PHORMIO. 

My  liege,  the  prisoner  whom  we  just  encountered 
Besought  our  intercession  — 

DIONYSIUS. 

Let  him  pass! 

Bceotia  never  bred  a  bigger  ass. 
PHORMIO. 

He  but  entreats  the  priceless  privilege 
Of  listening  to  thy  poem. 


172 


THE    CANDID    CRITIC. 


PHILOXENUS. 

After  which, 
We  do  not  doubt,  my  liege,  he'll  die  content. 

DIONYSIUS. 

Bring  back  the  culprit :  tell  him  he  is  pardoned. 

PHORMIO,    (aside  to  PHILOXENUS.) 
The  invention  was  well-timed. 

PHILOXENUS,   (aside  to  PHORMIO.) 

Remorseless  Phorrnio ! 
Would'st  thou  reserve  him  for  a  crueler  doom? 

FIRST  PARASITE,   (entering  and  kneeling  to  the  King.) 
My  gracious  master! 

DIONYSIUS. 

Rise  !     Thy  wish  is  granted. 
Philoxenus,  you've  never  heard  our  "Ajax," 
If  I  remember  ? 

PHILOXENUS. 
You  forget,  my  liege  : 
I  was  a  listener  at  the  royal  theatre 
On  its  first  presentation. 

DIONYSIUS. 

There  'twas  murdered, 
Unconscionably  murdered  by  the  players. 


THE    CANDID    CRITIC. 


173 


The  rascals!     I  improved  their  elocution 
Before  they  quitted  Syracuse. 

PHILOXENUS. 

And  how? 

DIONYSTUS. 

Cut  out  the  tongue  of  every  one  of  them. 
Didst  ever  have  a  tragedy  performed? 
Be  happy,  in  thy  inexperience,  then! 
More  woful  than  the  woe  of  Niobe 
Was  it,  to  see  the  children  of  my  brain 
Dismembered,  mangled,  strangled,  torn  and  swallowed, 
By  those  word-butchers!     Maledictions  on  them! 
Great  Nemesis !     I  let  them  off  too  lightly. 

FIRST    PARASITE. 

Indeed,  my  liege,  'twould  only  have  been  justice 
To  have  tried  the  new-made  engine  on  their  limbs ;  — 
That  would  have  served  them  after  their  own  fashion. 

DIONYSIUS. 

Well  thought  of!     But,  Philoxenus,  now  tell  me, 
What  thought  you  of  the  play? 

PHORMIO,  (aside  to  PHILOXENUS.) 

For  Xanthe's  sake, 

Be  prudent  now. 


174  THE    CANDID   CRITIC. 

DIONYSIUS. 

Which  passage  pleased  thee  best? 

PHILOXENUS. 

The  closing  one,  my  liege. 

DIONYSIUS. 

Ay,  that  was  fair ; 
But  which  didst  think  most  moving? 

PHILOXENUS. 

'Twas  all  moving. 
(Aside.)    And  yet  I  sat  it  through  ! 

DIONYSIUS. 

Indeed,  I'm  glad 
It  pleased  thee. 

PHILOXENUS. 
Said  I  that? 
PHORMIO,   (aside.) 

Restrain  thy  tongue. 
DIONYSIUS. 

How!     Pleased  it  not?     Speak  out,  Philoxenus! 
I  prize  judicious  censure.     Think  me  not 
One  of  those  tender-skinned,  conceited  scribblers, 
Who,  prurient  for  praise,  recoil  and  smart 
Under  the  touch  of  blame. 


THE    CANDID   CRITIC.  175 

PHILOXENUS. 

That's  wise — that's  royal! 
For,  let  this  be  admitted :  the  true  poet 
Carries  the  consciousness  of  his  high  gift 
Like  an  impenetrable  shield  before  him. 
He  knows  his  oracles  are  from  the  gods, 
And,  like  the  gods,  immutable,  immortal, 
Albeit  the  tardy  age  receive  them  not. 
What  though  the  laugh  of  bigotry  and  hate, 
The  taunt  of  scurrile  infamy  and  falsehood, 
The  sneer  of  worldly-wise  expediency, 
Fall  on  his  ears?     The  echo  is  not  heard 
In  the  serene  seclusion  of  his  soul ! 
'Tis  the  false  prophet  whom  the  critics  reach: 
Never  a  true  one  by  their  shafts  was  wounded. 

DIONYSIUS. 

My  thoughts,  adroitly  uttered !     Tell  me  now,  — 
Now  that  I  know  to  value  thy  opinion,  — 
Wast  thou  not  charmed  with  "Ajax"? 

PHILOXENUS. 

Frankly,  no. 
DIONYSIUS. 
Dost  jest? 


176  THE    CANDID    CRITIC. 

PHILOXENUS. 

The  gods  forbid,  so  great  a  king 
Should  be  a  poet! 

DIONYSIUS. 

Insolent!     Thy  life  — 
PHORMIO,   (to  PHILOXENUS.) 
Rash  one  !     Thou'rt  lost ! 

FIRST    PARASITE. 

Ho!  Democles  and  guards! 
Seize  on  this  churlish  traitor. 

PHILOXENUS. 

Why,  thou  viper  ! 
Art  thou  already  warm  enough  to  sting? 

DIONYSIUS. 

No  poet !  I  no  poet !     Democles ! 
Conduct  this  carping  rebel  to  the  quarries. 

PHILOXENUS. 

The  quarries !     Are  they  always  good,  my  liege, 
In  such  distempers? 

DIONYSIUS. 

What  distempers,  sirrah  ? 

PHILOXENUS. 

A  sort  of  indigestion  of  the  mind  — 


THE    CANDID    CRITIC.  177 

A  state  in  which  the  judgment  cannot  stomach 
What's  put  upon  it. 

DIONYSIUS. 

Drag  him  from  my  sight! 
PHILOXENUS. 
And  wilt  thou  then  be  any  more  a  poet? 

DIONYSIUS. 

Away  !     No  words !     Now,  Phormio,  thou  shalt  hear 
The  rest  of  "  Ajax." 

PHILOXENUS,   (to  the   Guards.} 

Quick,  quick  to  the  quarries ! 

{Exit  with  Guards. 
PHORMIO. 

My  liege,  he's  mad  !     Forgive  him ;  spare  my  friend ! 
[He  kneels  to  DIONYSIUS  as  the  Scene  closes. 


SCENE   III. 

A  Dungeon.      Enter   PHILOXENUS.      Two  Executioners^  vnper- 
ceived  of  him^  follow. 

PHILOXENUS. 

Could  all  poor  poets  thus  confute  their  critics, 
12 


178 


THE    CANDID    CRITIC. 


Dulness  might  drone,  unpricked,  among  her  poppies. 

Good  sooth!  here's  room  enough  to  criticize, — 

And  matter  too,  —  with  very  patient  listeners. 

The  ceiling  is  a  thought  too  nigh  the  floor; 

The  architecture  of  a  style  too  heavy  ; 

A  mouldy  moisture  hangs  upon  the  air, 

If  air  it  may  be  called  by  courtesy. 

A  caviller  might  find  even  other  faults; 

But,  when  I  think  on  all  that  I've  escaped, 

This  dungeon  smiles  a  welcome.     Who  approach? 

Ah,  worthy  sirs !     I  knew  not  you  were  present. 

FIRST    EXECUTIONER. 

A  merry  knave!     Eh,  comrade? 

SECOND    EXECUTIONER. 

'Tis  a  marvel 
To  see  a  man  smile  here.     Art  in  thy  senses? 

PHILOXENUS. 

Ay,  sir,  and  they  in  me.     Canst  say  as  much? 
Pardon  me  —  am  I  right  ?  —  your  gentle  craft  — 
Is  it  not  —  are  ye  not  the  executioners  ? 

FIRST    EXECUTIONER. 

The  same,  sir,  at  your  service. 


THE    CANDID    CRITIC.  179 

SECOND    EXECUTIONER. 

We  shall  be 
Better  acquainted  soon. 

PHILOXENUS. 

Ha !  that's  a  comfort. 
How  long  have  ye  pursued  your  cheerful  calling? 

SECOND    EXECUTIONER. 

More  than  ten  years. 

FIRST    EXECUTIONER. 

And  I  —  let  me  consider  ! 
When  had  we  the  great  plague  in  Syracuse? 
I  came  in  with  the  plague. 

PHILOXENUS. 

A  worthy  colleague ! 

Well,  ye  must  be  no  bunglers  at  your  trade 
By  this  time,  gentle  sirs.     I'll  warrant  me, 
In  bringing  down  an  axe  upon  the  block, 
Tying  a  noose,  or  nailing  to  the  rack, 
Ye've  ne'er  had  rivals;  —  ye  can  do  it  deftly? 

FIRST    EXECUTIONER. 

Ah !  thou  may'st  say  it.     I  defy  the  man 
Can  do  those  jobs  more  neatly. 


180  THE    CANDID    CRITIC. 

SECOND    EXECUTIONER. 

Held  thy  tongue ! 
Bah !     Thou'rt  a  scandal  to  the  craft  —  a  botcher  ! 

FIRST    EXECUTIONER. 

Dost  hear  the  jealous  rogue?     Go  to!  go  to! 
Thou'rt  a  mere  boy. 

SECOND    EXECUTIONER. 

When  had  I  to  strike  twice 
At  a  man's  neck  1     O  !  thou'rt  a  matchless  workman ! 

FIRST    EXECUTIONER. 

Fellow !  I  scorn  thy  malice.     There  was  cause 
Why  I  should  miss  that  aim :  the  light  was  dim. 

SECOND    EXECUTIONER. 

Thy  eyes,  more  like. 

FIRST    EXECUTIONER. 

Fellow,  I  say  thou  liest! 

PHILOXENUS. 

Nay,  gentlemen,  this  generous  strife  must  end. 
Ye  both  are  artists  —  'tis  a  pride  to  know  you;  — 
Artists,  I  say  —  the  first  in  your  vocation, 
Though  your  vocation  may  not  be  the  first ! 
Ye  do  abhor  all  tyros  —  all  pretenders, 


THE    CANDID    C2ITIC.  181 

Devoid  of  skill  and  genius.     Yesterday, 
The  king's  chief  barber  fell  beneath  your  axe, 
For  rashly  boasting  that  the  royal  weasand 
Was  at  his  mercy  daily. 

FIRST    EXECUTIONER. 

Marry,  I 

Took  care  of  him.     A  very  pretty  job  ! 
A  handsome  throat  he  had  —  made  a  good  mark. 

PHILOXENUS. 

Sir,  spoken  like  an  artist !     Hear  me  now  : 
I  am  an  artist  equally  —  a  poet. 

SECOND    EXECUTIONER. 

We  could  have  sworn  thou  wast  no  honest  man. 

FIRST    EXECUTIONER. 

Did  I  not  tell  you  'twas  a  desperate  knave? 

PHILOXENUS. 

Well,  listen  to  my  case:  your  lord,  the  king, 
Though  neither  born  nor  bred  to  my  vocation, — 
Without  that  natural  gift  no  toil  can  lend, 
Or  that  acquaintance  study  may  supply,— 
Attempts  the  poet's  function,  and  then  asks 
My  frank  opinion  of  his  verses.     I 


182  THE    CANDID    CRITIC. 

Tell  him  I  like  them  not :  for  which  offence, 

Behold  me  here !     Now  put  it  to  yourselves  : 

What  had  the  king  essayed  your  handicraft, 

And,  emulous  to  wield  the  axe  like  you, 

Hacked  off  my  head,  —  then  asked,  "  Was't  not  well 

done?"  — 
Would  ye've  said,  Ay? 

FIRST    EXECUTIONER. 

Not  were  he  twice  a  king! 

SECOND    EXECUTIONER. 

No!     Each  man  to  his  trade,  is  still  my  maxim. 

FIRST    EXECUTIONER. 

'Tis  a  shrewd  knave.     Well,  well ;  enough  of  prating  ! 

SECOND   EXECUTIONER,    (aside  to  PHILOXENUS.) 
I  like  thy  humor ;  —  view  me  as  thy  friend. 
'Twill  be  thy  privilege  to  choose  the  arm 
That  is  to  — 

PHILOXENUS. 

Yes,  I  fully  comprehend. 

SECOND    EXECUTIONER,    (aside  to  PHILOXENUS.) 

Give  me  the  chance,  and  I'll  outdo  myself. 
Thou  shalt  be  featly  dealt  with; — thou  shalt  see 


THE    CANDID   CRITIC.  183 

A  marvellous  nice  stroke  —  no  butchery, 
But  smooth,  clean,  faultless  headsmanship. 

PHILOXENUS. 

Good  sir, 

How  shall  I  show  my  gratitude?     Thy  claims 
Shall  be  considered. 

FIRST    EXECUTIONER,    (aside  to   PfllLOXENUS.) 

If  your  head 

Is  to  come  off,  consider  me  your  man. 
Marry,  'twill  do  your  heart  good  when  you  see 
How  dexterously  I'll  do  it.     You'll  confess 
That  I'm  the  better  artist. 

PHILOXENUS. 

You  o'erwhelm  me. 

[Exeunt  Executioners. 

Well,  by  the  gods,  I  hold  in  reverence  more 

A  skilful  headsman  than  a  charlatan  ! 

O,  'tis  the  curse  of  every  liberal  art, 

There  still  are  vile  pretenders  who  defame  it. 

In  painting,  what  mere  daubers  do  we  see, 

Who,  born  to  guide  the  plough,  mislead  the  pencil ! 

In  music,  what  deluded  sciolists 


184  THE    CANDID    CRITIC. 

Evoke  strange  discords  and  tormented  sounds 

From  chords  which,  smitten  by  responsive  fingers, 

Give  up  the  very  soul  of  harmony  ! 

And  how  art  thou,  divinest  Poesy, 

Shamed  and  molested  by  the  wretched  herd, 

Who,  unordained,  profane  thy  sacred  temples, 

And  claim  to  utter  oracles  of  thine, 

Mistaking  the  foul  tumors  of  their  brains 

For  a  god's  impregnation!     Scribbling  fools, 

Innocent  cheats,  and  facile  poetasters ! 

O,  would  they  quit  the  pen  and  grasp  the  spade, 

Apollo  should  not  curse,  but  Flora  bless ! 

Enter  XANTHE. 

My  child  !  thy  footstep  was  so  feathery  light, 
Methought,  a  moment,  'twas  thy  mother's  spirit, 
With  sainted  beauty,  come  to  light  my  dungeon. 

XANTHE. 

Whatever  doom  may  be  for  thee  reserved, 
Behold  me  here  to  share  it! 

PHILOXENUS. 

Tremble  not. 
I  cannot  think  the  king  will  do  me  harm ; 


THE    CANDID    CRITIC.  185 

But,  should  capricious  cruelty  impel  him 
To  prematurely  quench  life's  sinking  taper, 
Know,  that  it  was  not  with  a  serious  purpose, 
I've  interposed  objections  to  the  choice 
Of  thy  surrendered  heart. 

XANTHE. 

Ah,  do  not  turn 

My  thoughts  from  thy  great  peril  on  myself! 
Another  time,  those  words  had  made  me  start 
With  a  too  vivid  joy;  but  now,  alas! 
They  bring  no  consolation;  —  I  should  hate 
My  own  ungrateful  spirit  if  they  did. 

Enter  Executioners. 
SECOND    EXECUTIONER. 

'Tis  the  king's  order;  —  we  must  e'en  obey  it. 

FIRST    EXECUTIONER. 

Poor  fellow!     Well,  come,  master! 

XANTHE. 

Who  are  these? 

PHILOXENUS. 

Command  thyself — the  executioners! 


186  THE    CANDID    CRITIC. 

FIRST    EXECUTIONER. 

We  both  are  sorry  for  thee,  master  poet; 
But  the  king's  will  is  final. 

PHILOXENUS. 

Do  ye  bear 
His  written  mandate? 

SECOND    EXECUTIONER. 

Ay,  sir ;  more's  the  pity  ! 

XANTHE. 

Away !  ye  grim  and  lying  murderers ! 

Ye  shall  hew  off  these  limbs  before  ye  reach  him. 

PHILOXENUS. 
Let  me  behold  your  order. 

SECOND    EXECUTIONER. 

If  you  doubt  it, 
Read  for  yourself.     Marry,  'tis  plain  as  daylight. 

PHILOXENUS,   (reading  aside.) 
"  And  let  Philoxenus  appear  to-night 
At  the  king's  banquet."     (Laughs.) 

XANTHE. 

Ah,  that  frantic  laughter ! 
'Tis  even  more  terrible  than  tears. 


THE    CANDID   CRITIC.  187 

PHILOXENUS. 

A  summons 

To  attend  the  king!     These  gentlemen,  rny  child, 
Are  wags  in  their  small  way.     Unmannered  caitiffs ! 
Why  did  ye  palter  with  us? 

FIRST    EXECUTIONER. 

Be  not  angry. 

We  gladly  would  have  served  you,  master  poet  ; 
But  then  his  majesty,  you  know,  is  wilful. 

PHILOXENUS. 

Well,  I  can  pardon  you  the  disappointment 

With  all  my  heart.     And  now,  good  sirs,  farewell ! 

Nay,  we  must  tear  ourselves  from  your  embraces. 

[Exit  with  XANTHE. 
FIRST    EXECUTIONER. 

'Tis  always  thus  our  choicest  customers 
Find  a  reprieve. 

SECOND    EXECUTIONER. 

Bear  up,  bear  up,  old  fellow! 

Fear  not  the  king  will  let  our  axes  rust. 

[Exeunt. 


188 


THE    CANDID   CRITIC. 


SCENE   IV. 

The  King's  Banquetting-Room.  —  Enter  PHORMIO  and  ALASTOR. 
PHORMIO. 

Art  them  assured  the  king  has  pardoned  him? 

ALASTOR. 

Ay,  he  is  bidden  to  the  evening  banquet  ; 
And,  sir,  as  thou'rt  his  friend,  I  do  implore  thee 
Counsel  him  nevermore  to  criticize 
The  monarch's  verses. 

PHORMIO. 

I  shall  venture  much 
To  shield  him  from  imprudence. 

ALASTOR. 

Fare  thee  well. 
[Exit. 

PHORMIO. 

And  yet  I  fear,  in  spite  of  chains  and  dungeons, 
His  thoughts  will  spurn  disguise.     The  gods  themselves 
Could  not  extort  the  praise  his  heart  denied ;  — 
Will  he  then  stoop  to  flatter  Dionysius? 


THE    CANDID    CRITIC.  189 

Enter  PHILOXENUS. 
PHILOXENUS. 

What!  do  I  see  thee,  Phormio,  and  alive? 

PHORMIO. 

Beware !  thou'st  found  it  somewhat  hazardous 
To  sport  with  tigers  counterfeiting  tameness ;  — 
A  scratch,  a  look  may  rouse  the  bloody  instinct 
That  marks  thee  for  its  prey  —  and  so,  be  prudent. 

PHILOXENUS. 

I  seek  not  this  encounter.     May  the  gods 
Desert  me  when  I  fawn  upon  a  tyrant ! 
My  friend,  I  loathe  hypocrisy. 

PHORMIO. 

Not  less 

Is  my  aversion  to  it;  but,  alas! 
We  all,  in  a  degree,  are  hypocrites, — 
Always  deceiving  others  or  ourselves. 
Some  thoughts  concealed  we  not  from  our  best  friends, 
They'd  be  our  friends  no  longer ;  —  looked  we  closely 
To  our  own  derelictions,  —  did  we  not, 
With  nattering  fantasies  and  dear  delusions, 
Juggle  our  ready  hearts, — we'd  soon  abhor 
The  life  we  cling  to. 


190 


THE    CANDID    CRITIC. 


PHILOXENUS. 

Phormio,  thou  hast  studied 
Among  the  Sophists,  and  canst  aptly  wield 
The  two-edged  weapons  of  that  specious  school. 
The  king  approaches. 

PHORMIO. 

Now  let  caution  rule  thee 
In  look  and  word. 

PHILOXENUS. 
I'll  not  forget  myself. 

Enter  DIONYSIUS,  ALASTOR,  XANTHE,  Parasites,  fyc. 
DIONYSIUS. 

Philoxenus,  sit  here  at  our  right  hand, 
And  pledge  us  in  this  cup. 

PHILOXENUS. 

Most  thankfully. 

DIONYSIUS. 

What  news,  Sir  Poet,  bring' st  thou  from  the  quarries? 

PHILOXENUS. 

Incredible,  my  liege !     The  headsmen  languish 
For  want  of  occupation. 

DIONYSIUS. 

Ha!  that's  bitter. 


THE    CANDID   CRITIC.  191 

PHILOXENUS. 

The  sunshine  of  the  court  shall  sweeten  me. 

DIONYSIUS. 

What  if  we  had  consigned  thee  to  the  block 
For  thy  unmeasured  rudeness? 

PHILOXENUS. 

There  had  been 

One  man  the  less  in  Syracuse,  who  dared 
To  speak  the  truth  to  all  men  at  all  times. 

DIONYSIUS. 

A  prodigy  at  court,  I  do  confess  ! 
But,  come :  they  tell  me  thou'st  a  taste  proficient 
Tn  poetry  and  art ;  and  here's  a  passage  — 
'Tis  very  brief —  which  above  all  I  prize, 
In  my  great  poem.     Read  it. 

PHILOXENUS,   (aside.) 

Cruel  fate! 

PHORMIO,    (aside  to  PHILOXENUS.) 
Now,  if  thou  canst  applaud  not,  pray  be  silent. 

[PHILOXENUS  reads  in  dumb  shoic  from  a  scroll 

which  DIONYSIUS  hands  him. 
Beautiful  !     Is  it  not,  Philoxenus  ? 
(Aside,)  Say,  Yes :  that  little  word  may  make  thy  fortune. 


192  THE    CANDID    CRITIC. 

DIONYSIUS. 

Do  those  lines  please  thee  ?     Speak,  Philoxenus! 
Now  for  thy  frank  opinion ! 

PHILOXENUS. 

Are  thy  guards 
Within  there? 

DIONYSIUS. 

What,  ho  !  guards  ! 

[The   Guards  come  forward. 

PHILOXENUS,    (to  the  Guards.) 

I  pray  you,  lead  me 
Back  to  the  quarries. 

PHORMIO. 
Now  thou'rt  lost,  indeed. 

FIRST    PARASITE. 

Seize  the  disloyal  churl!     He  must  not  live 
After  such  insolence. 

SECOND    PARASITE. 

Death  to  the  knave ! 
Torture  and  death! 

XANTHE. 

Ah,  no,  sirs!  he's  my  father! 
Urge  not  such  desperate  penalties. 


THE    CANDID    CRITIC.  193 

ALASTOR. 

The  king, 

Kind  sirs,  is  still  a  king ;  he  does  not  ask 
Any  of  your  dictation. 

FIRST    PARASITE. 

By  the  gods, 

I  cannot  quietly  stand  by  and  hear 
My  sovereign  liege  insulted,  nor  defend  him. 

DIONYSIUS. 

Thy  sovereign  liege,  fool !  can  defend  himself. 
Ye  forward  brawlers,  leave  the  royal  presence ! 
Leave  Syracuse,  forever  !     Are  ye  gone  ? 

[Exeunt  Parasites. 

And  now,  Philoxenus,  we  must  devise 

Some  punishment  for  thee,  albeit  I  fear 

Thou'rt  quite  incorrigible.     Since  the  quarries 

Have  failed  to  make  thee  pliant,  I  must  try 

Severer  measures.     Xanthe  and  Alastor, 

If  tell-tale  eyes  speak  truly,  in  your  hearts 

Already  are  ye  wedded  :  lo,  I  join 

Your  hands  in  nuptial  union !     There's  thy  sentence, 

Philoxenus ! 

13 


194  THE    CANDID    CRITIC. 

PHILOXENUS. 

Magnanimous  avenger  ! 
Great  Dionysius  !     With  surprise  and  joy 
I'm  all  confounded  !     Why  not  always,  thus, 
With  clemency  o'erwhelm  the  offender's  soul? 
O,  is  not  gratitude  a  sweeter  draught 
Than  vengeance  ever  tasted? 

DIONYSIUS. 

Rise,  my  friends! 

Athenian,  rise !     We  would  not  have  thee  think 
Mercy  so  rare  a  mood  with  Dionysius. 
Now,  for  the  banquet! — But,  a  moment,  stay! 
Philoxenus,  in  truth,  canst  thou  discern 
No  merit  in  my  "Ajax"?     Can  I  write 
Poetry,  think  you? 

PHILOXENUS. 

No.     But  thou  canst  act  it; 
And  that  is  nobler. 

DIONYSIUS. 
Then  am  I  content. 

Curtain  falls. 


195 


THE    LAMPOON. 


Present,  VICTOR.     Enter  PEDRILLO,  with  a  Newspaper. 
VICTOR. 

How  now,  Pedrillo?     Pr'ythee,  what's  the  matter, 
That  thus  you  tramp  the  room,  and  chafe,  and  pant, 
As  if  to  madness  baited  1 

PEDRILLO. 

Look  at  that; 
And  wonder  at  my  equanimity  ! 

VICTOR. 

A  very  Stoic,  truly  !  mild  as  moonbeams, 
Reluctant  as  gun-cotton  to  take  fire, 
And  quiet  as  a  ribbon  in  a  whirlwind! 
Patience  personified ! 

PEDRTLLO. 

Read  that,  I  say ! 


196 


THE    LAMPOON. 


VICTOR. 

An  if  you  roar  so  loudly,  my  Pedrillo, 

You'll  wake  the  watchman  snoring  on  the  doorstep. 

Compose  yourself 

PEDRILLO. 

I  shall  go  mad  indeed ! 

What!  you  have  seen  it  —  read  it — laughed  at  it  — 
Retailed  it,  at  the  club,  as  a  good  joke! 
But,  as  the  moon  's  above  us,  I'll  have  vengeance ! 

VICTOR. 

Well  done!     The  action  and  the  word  well  suited! 
How  such  a  climax  would  bring  down  the  bravos! 
Othello,  Hotspur,  Gloster  —  say,  what  part 
Shall  be  selected  for  your  first  appearance? 

PEDRILLO. 

Torture !     I  thought  you  were  my  friend.     Farewell ! 

VICTOR. 

Stay,  till  you  prove  me  otherwise.     Explain  : 
What  direful,  strange  affliction  hath  o'erwhelmed  you  ? 
Have  you  been  plundered,  cuffed,  knocked  down,  and 

stamped  on? 
Perhaps  your  uncle's  dead,  and,  in  his  will, 


THE    LAMPOON.  197 

Has  left  you  but  a  halter?     No?     Has  Laura 
Eloped  with   that  long-haired,  black-whiskered  bandit, 
Count  Loferini? 

PEDRILLO. 

Pah !  he's  her  abhorrence. 
Read  —  read  that  paragraph  in  that  vile  print ! 
Behold  me  dragged  before  a  grinning  public ; 
Pointed  at,  squibbed,  traduced,  and  ridiculed  — 
Made  the  town's  butt ;  the  mockery  of  my  friends ! 
'Sdeath!     I'll  be  no  man's  butt!     The  lying  caitiff! 
The  inky  cutthroat!     The  pen-stabbing  footpad! 
The  paltering,  prying,  prostituting  pander  ! 
I'll  have  his  ears  or  his  apology! 

VICTOR. 

Bah!     Give  me  a  regalia.     Can  it  be 
Abuse  from  such  a  one  can  stir  your  choler? 
Wait  till  the  blackguard  praises  you,  and  then, 
Curse,  if  you  please,  the  fellow's  impudence. 

PEDRILLO. 

What !  shall  I  take  no  notice  of  the  knave 
And  his  base  lies? 


198  THE    LAMPOON. 

VICTOR. 

By  all  means  notice  him, 

If  you  would  flatter.     Challenge  —  flog  —  demand 
Instant  retraction  —  sue  him  for  a  libel;  — 
So  may  his  aims  be  answered,  and  the  kicks 
Of  a  true  gentleman  may  do  him  honor, 
As  royalty  dubs  knighthood  —  with  a  blow! 

PEDRILLO. 

Would  you  not  have  me  show  a  due  resentment  1 

VICTOR. 

Tell  him  his  sting  is  felt,  and  he'll  rejoice : 
Let  it  strike  harmless  on  the  triple  mail 
Of  conscious  honor;  and  the  baffled  viper 
Will  writhe  and  hiss,  to  find  his  venom  wasted. 

PEDRILLO. 

Ah  !  but  the  public  scorn ! 

VICTOR. 

The  public  scorn  ! 

Tell  me  what  scorn  the  public  can  inflict, 
Which,  if  unmerited,  an  honest  man 
Cannot  repay  tenfold  ?     The  public  scorn ! 
O  paroxysm  of  most  insane  conceit, 


THE    LAMPOON.  199 

To  think  a  ribald  gazetteer's  worst  spite 
Could  pull  upon  your  head  the  public  scorn  — 
Could  raise  you  half  an  inch  above  the  mass, 
For  public  contemplation !     Ah,  my  friend, 
Time  will  reverse  thy  telescope;  and  objects, 
Which  strike  thee  now  as  monstrous,  will  appear 
Ridiculously  dwarfish  :  it  will  teach  thee 
That,  in  this  jostling,  struggling,  whirling  world, 
The  most  notorious  are  but  little  known, 
The  observed  of  all  observers  little  seen, 
The  loftiest  low,  the  noisiest  little  heard; 
And  that  attacks  like  this,  conceived  in  envy, — 
False,  flippant,  venal,  venomous,  and  vulgar,  — 
By  the  judicious  are  at  once  despised, 
By  the  unthinking  are  at  once  forgotten. 
O,  shallower  than  the  ostrich's  device, 
Who  buries  in  the  desert  sand  his  eyes, 
That  no  one  may  discern  him,  is  the  folly, 
Which  could  persuade  you  that  the  public  gaze, 
From  the  innumerable  concerns  of  life, 
Was  turned  by  this  frail  slander  on  yourself! 
So,  never  fear  to  walk  the  street  to-morrow :  — 


200 


THE    LAMPOON. 


The  boys  will  not  hoot  after  you ;  the  ladies 

Will  not  ejaculate  as  you  pass  by. 

My  life  upon  it,  you  will  go  unharmed, 

Uripersecuted.     But  I'll  flout  no  more; 

Though,  sooth  to  say,  this  sensitive  alarm, 

This  prurient  shyness,  and  unmeasured  anger, 

Spring  merely  from  egregious  self-conceit, 

Or  grosser  ignorance.     Yet  have  I  known 

Mistakes  as  marvellous  —  have  seen  a  man  — 

A  high-souled,  honorable,  valiant  one  — 

Sickened  and  blasted  by  a  slanderous  breath. 

And  I  have  witnessed,  too,  a  sadder  sight  — 

A  maiden  in  the  bloom  of  youth  and  beauty, 

And  good  as  fair,  and  innocent  as  gifted, 

By  the  same  pestilence  struck  down  and  killed  ; 

While  he,  the  spotted  wretch,  who  did  the  murders, 

Was  —  O,  the  puniest  of  all  creeping  things ! 

The  press!     What  is  that  terrifying  engine 

In  hands  of  fools  and  knaves  ?     An  empty  scarecrow ! 

A  sword  of  lath !  a  pop-gun !  a  tin  trumpet ! 

O,  piteous  the  delusion,  that  could  fancy 


THE    LAMPOON.  201 

The  minds  of  men,  of  veritable  men, 
Were  swayed  by  such  impostures  ! 

PEDRILLO. 

Are  they  not? 
VICTOR. 

No!  Dupes  and  fools  may  be; — for  such  I  care  not: 
Their  good  esteem  is  worthless  as  their  hate! 

PEDRILLO. 

True,  every  word !    You  have  prevailed,  my  friend ;  — 
The  smart  is  over,  and  the  anger  vanished. 
Henceforth,  these  slight  and  slimy  paper-hoppers 
Shall  less  annoy  than  that  superior  insect, 
The  shrill  cicada  of  our  summer  pathways, 
Which  harmless  springs  before  us  from  the  grass, 
Sinks  at  our  feet,  and  straightway  is  forgotten. 


NOTES. 


Page  67.     Gonello. 

THIS  is  a  true  story.  Gonello,  the  son  of  a  glover,  in 
Florence,  was  born  between  the  years  1390  and  1400.  While 
still  a  young  man,  he  was  received  into  the  service  of  Ni- 
colo  the  Third,  Marquis  of  Ferrara,  who  installed  him  as  hia 
Fool,  and  became  so  much  attached  to  him,  that  he  sur 
rounded  him  with  favors,  and  even  consulted  him,  sometimes, 
in  state  affairs.  The  traits  of  Gonello's  character,  and  the 
events  of  his  history  and  death,  as  I  have  metrically  de 
scribed  them,  are  almost  literally  accordant  with  the  histor 
ical  account.  He  was  convicted  of  I£ze-majest6,  inasmuch  as 
he  had  laid  violent  hands  on  his  sovereign ;  was  seized  and 
punished  in  the  manner  narrated  in  the  poem.  The  marquis 
ordered  a  pompous  funeral;  nor  was  any  circumstance  omit 
ted  that  could  evince  his  respect  for  the  memory  of  the 
jester.  The  life  of  Gonello,  forming  a  considerable  volume, 
was  written  by  one  Bartolomeo  del  Uomo. 

Page  78.     The  Martyr  of  the  Arena. 

In  the  year  of  our  Lord  404,  a  young  Asiatic  monk, 
named  Telemachus,  lost  his  life  in  a  generous  attempt  to 


204  NOTES. 

prevent  the  combat  of  the  gladiators,  in  the  amphitheatre  at 
Rome.  He  had  stepped  into  the  arena  to  separate  the  com 
batants,  when  the  spectators,  surprised  and  exasperated  at  his 
interruption  of  the  brutal  exhibition,  overwhelmed  him  with 
a  shower  of  stones.  But  from  that  time  forth  the  human 
sacrifices  of  the  amphitheatre  were  abolished.  In  allusion 
to  the  fate  of  Telemachus,  Gibbon,  with  more  acrimony 
than  truth,  remarks,  "  Yet  no  church  has  been  dedicated, 
no  altar  has  been  erected,  to  the  only  monk  who  died  a 
martyr  to  the  cause  of  humanity."  I  have  no  especial  par 
tiality  for  monks,  but  history  repeatedly  gives  the  lie  to 
Gibbon's  assertion.  It  shows  to  what  a  discreditable  extent 
of  recklessness  he  could  be  carried  by  his  prejudices,  where 
his  choice  lay  between  an  implied  compliment  to  Christian 
ity  and  a  misrepresentation  of  facts. 

Page  83.     Woodhull.  . 

General  Nathaniel  Woodhull  was  born  at  Mastic,  Long 
Island,  in  1722,  and  was  engaged  in  several  gallant  actions, 
during  the  war  of  the  American  revolution.  At  the  time  of 
the  invasion  of  Long  Island  by  the  royal  forces,  in  1776,  he 
was  overtaken  at  Jamaica,  with  two  or  three  companions, 
by  a  detachment  of  the  seventeenth  regiment  of  British  dra 
goons,  and  the  seventy-first  regiment  of  infantry.  He  gave 
up  his  sword  in  token  of  surrender ;  but  the  subordinate 
officer,  who  first  approached,  ordered  him  to  say,  "  God 
save  the  king."  This  Woodhull  refused  to  do;  for  which 
the  officer  struck  him  severely  over  the  head  with  his  sword ; 
and  of  the  effects  of  the  wound  Woodhull  eventually  died. 


NOTES.  205 


Page  89.     The  Death  of  Warren. 

"  Dulce  et  decorum  est  pro  patria  raori,"  was  the  reply 
of  Warren  to  the  friends  who  tried  to  dissuade  him  from 
exposing  his  person  at  the  battle  of  Bunker  Hill. 

Page  91.     He  beheld  Cornwallis  yield. 

Washington,  though  present  at  the  surrender  at  York- 
town,  deputed  General  Lincoln  to  receive  the  sword  of 
Lord  Cornwallis.  This  was  done  in  a  retaliatory  spirit. 
When  the  Americans  capitulated  at  Charleston,  Cornwallis, 
instead  of  receiving  Lincoln's  sword  himself,  slightingly  di 
rected  him  to  deliver  it  to  Colonel  St.  Leger.  The  affront 
thus  offered  to  one  of  his  favorite  officers  was  not  forgotten 
by  Washington;  and  when  the  appropriate  time  came,  he 
resented  it,  by  meting  out  a  similar  measure  of  indignity  to 
his  lordship. 

My  authority  for  this  anecdote  is  my  kinsman,  the  late 
Major  Winthrop  Sargent,  in  whose  mental  custody  it  could 
hardly  have  remained  for  a  series  of  years  had  it  not  been 
true.  Major  Sargent  was  major  of  artillery  at  the  battle  of 
Brandywine,  September  llth,  1777,  and  adjutant-general  at 
the  terrible  battle  of  the  Miami  Villages,  November  4th, 
1791.  On  both  occasions  he  was  wounded  —  on  the  latter, 
severely.  He  shared  the  privations  of  our  army  at  Valley 
Forge,  and  was  one  of  a  delegation  sent  by  Washington  to 
make  a  representation  of  them  to  the  Congress,  at  Philadelphia. 
On  the  consummation  of  our  independence,  Major  Sargent 
contemplated  pursuing  his  military  career  in  Europe ;  and 


206  NOTES. 

Washington  transmitted  through  General  Knox  the  follow 
ing  certificate  :  "  I  certify  that  Major  Winthrop  Sargent, 
lately  an  officer  in  the  line  of  artillery  and  aid-de-camp  to 
Major- General  Howe,  has  served  with  great  reputation  in 
the  armies  of  the  United  States  of  America ;  that  he  entered 
into  the  service  of  his  country  at  an  early  period  of  the 
war,  and,  during  the  continuance  of  it,  displayed  a  zeal,  in 
tegrity,  and  intelligence,  which  did  honor  to  him  as  an 
officer  and  a  gentleman.  Given  under  my  hand  and  seal, 
this  18th  day  of  June,  1785.  (Signed)  George  Washington, 
late  Commander-in-chief,  &c.  &c."  Major  Sargent  subse 
quently  received  the  appointment  of  governor  of  the  territory 
of  Mississippi. 

Page  122.     It  is  herself  he  sees. 

A  letter  dated  Monterey,  October  7th,  1846,  describes  a 
Mexican  woman  as  having  been  mortally  wounded  while 
going  to  succor  a  dying  soldier  on  the  field  of  battle.  "  I 
think  it  was  an  accidental  shot  that  struck  her,"  says  the 
writer.  "  Passing  the  spot,  next  day,  I  saw  her  body  still 
lying  there,  with  the  bread  by  her  side,  and  the  broken 
gourd  with  a  few  drops  of  water  still  in  it — emblems  of 
her  errand." 

Page  123.     Adelaide's  Triumph. 

The  narrative  from  which  the  main  incident  of  this  little 
ballad  is  drawn  appeared,  some  time  since,  in  a  French  jour 
nal,  as  I  learn  from  a  friend,  to  whose  recollection  I  am 
indebted  for  the  story.  He  will  perceive  that  in  giving  it  a 


NOTES.  207 

poetical  dress,  I  have  materially  altered  it,  and  lost,  I  fear, 
much  of  the  simple  pathos  which  struck  me  in  his  oral 
narration. 

Page  147.     The  Drama's  Race. 

This  address  was  originally  written  for  the  occasion  of  a 
complimentary  benefit  to  the  manager  of  the  Park  Theatre, 
September  27th,  1839.  Among  the  performers  who  appeared 
that  evening  were  Mr.  Power,  the  celebrated  Irish  comedian, 
who  was  shortly  afterwards  lost  in  the  President,  Miss  Tree, 
Madame  Caradori  Allan,  Madame  Vestris,  Mr.  Charles  Mat 
thews,  Mr.  Barry,  and  Mr.  Browne. 

Page  159.     The  Candid  Critic. 

There  is  something  quite  comical  in  the  accounts  that 
have  come  down  to  us  of  the  characteristic  traits  of  the 
elder  Dionysius.  His  ruling  ambition  was  to  be  esteemed  a 
poet ;  and  his  mode  of  dealing  with  individuals  who  re 
fused  to  praise  his  verses  was  original  indeed  :  his  literary 
opponents  were  in  danger  of  being  confined  in  the  quarries, 
as  the  common  prison  of  Syracuse  was  called.  On  two  oc 
casions,  he  transmitted  poems  to  be  recited  at  the  Olympic 
games;  but,  much  to  his  chagrin,  they  were  dreadfully 
hissed.  The  Athenians  were  more  indulgent ;  and,  when  the 
news  reached  him  that  they  had  awarded  the  prize  to  a 
tragedy  from  his  pen,  he  was  almost  beside  himself  with 

j°y- 

Various  versions  of  his  quarrel  with  Philoxenus,  the  poet, 
are  given  by  ancient  historians.  As  the  story  is  told  in  the 


208  NOTES. 


of  Lilian,  Dionysius  had  submitted  a  drama 
to  the  poet  to  revise,  and  the  latter  drew  his  pen  through 
the  whole  of  it  —  an  affront  which  may  naturally  have 
aroused  the  indignation  of  the  monarch.  But  I  have  pre 
ferred  following  the  account  given  by  Diodorus,  as  better 
adapted  to  dramatic  treatment.  Fragments  of  a  burlesque 
poem,  entitled  Jeinvov,  or  the  Entertainment,  preserved  by 
Athenseus,  are  all  that  remain  to  us  of  the  writings  of 
Philoxenus. 

Page  195.     The  Lampoon. 

Byron  expresses  his  surprise  that  poor  Keats  should  have 
allowed  his  soul  to  be  "  snuffed  out  by  an  article."  But  an 
exaggerated  estimate  of  the  importance  of  published  abuse 
is  among  the  commonest  fallacies.  This  dramatic  sketch 
was  written  at  a  time  when  the  community  had  been  re 
cently  shocked  by  the  intelligence  of  two  deaths,  one  of 
which  was  self-inflicted,  in  consequence  of  scurrilous  per 
sonal  attacks  from  an  utterly  worthless  and  discreditable 
print.  Let  the  thin-skinned  object  of  such  attacks  bear  in 
mind,  that  "no  man  can  be  written  down  except  by  himself." 


THE    END. 


WORKS 

FOR     SALE     BY 

JAMES   MUNROE  AND   COMPANY, 

No.  134   Washington   Street, 
BOSTON. 


THE  MODERN  STANDARD  DRAMA, 

EDITED    BY    EPES    SARGENT. 

UNDER  this  title,  a  collection  of  all  the  celebrated  plays  that  keep 
possession  of  the  modern  stage,  is  now  in  course  of  publication. 

The  series  is  printed  from  large,  new,  and  uniform  type,  on  good 
paper,  and  sold  at  the  low  price  of  twelve  and  a  half  cents  each  play. 

Eight  plays  form  a  large  and  elegant  volume,  for  which  a  general  title- 
page,  and  an  engraving  of  some  distinguished  performer,  are  regularly 
given.  Bound  in  cloth,  one  dollar  a  volume. 

The  following  plays  have  been  already  published  :  — 

VOLUME   FIRST. 

1.  ION,  a  Tragedy,  by  T.  N.  TALFOURD 

2.  FAZIO,  a  Tragedy,  by  Rev.  HETTRT  HART  MILMAK. 

3.  THE  LADY  OF  LYONS,  a  Play,  by  Sir  EDWARD  LYTTON  BULWI*. 

4.  RICHELIEU,  a  Play,  by  Sir  EDWARD  LYTTON  BULWEH. 

5.  THE  WIFE,  a  Play,  by  JAMES  SHERIDAN  KNOWLES. 

6.  THE  HONEY  MOON,  a  Comedy,  by  JOHN  TOBIN. 

7.  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL,  by  RICHARD  BRINSLEY  SHIRIDAW. 

8.  MONEY,  a  Comedy,  by  Sir  EDWARD  LYTTOIT  BULWER. 

VOLUME   SECOND. 

9.  THE  STRANGER,  a  Tragedy,  by  AUGUSTUS  VON  KOTZEBUK. 

10.  GRANDFATHER  WHITEHEAD,  a  Drama,  by  MARK  LEMON. 

11.  RICHARD  THE  THIRD,  by  SHAKSPEARE   and  CIBBER. 

12.  LOVE'S  SACRIFICE,  a  Play,  by  GEORGE  W.  LOVELL. 

13.  THE  GAMESTER,  a  Tragedy,  by  EDWARD  MOORK. 

14.  A  CURE  FOR  THE  HEART-ACHE,  a  Comedy,  by  T.  MORTON. 

15.  THE  HUNCHBACK,  a  Play,  by  JAMES  SHERIDAN  KNOWLES. 

16.  DON  CAESAR  DE  BAZAN,  a  Drama,  in  Three  Acts  :  from  the  French. 


11  WORKS    FOR    SALE    BY   JAMES    MUNROE    AND    CO 

VOLUME   THIRD. 

17.  THE  POOR  GENTLEMAN,  a  Comedy,  by  G.  COLMAN  the  Younger. 

18.  HAMLET,  a  Tragedy,  by  WILLIAM  SHAKSPEARE. 

19.  CHARLES  THE  SECOND,  a  Comedy,  by  JOHN  HOWARD  PAYNB. 

20.  VENICE  PRESERVED,  a  Tragedy,  by  THOMAS  OTWAT. 

21.  PIZARRO,  a  Tragedy,  by  KOTZEBUE  and  SHERIDAN. 

22.  THE  LOVE  CHASE,  a  Comedy,  by  JAMES  SHERIDAN  KNOWLES. 

23.  OTHELLO,  a  Tragedy,  by  WILLIAM  SHAKSPEARE. 

24.  LEND  ME  FIVE  SHILLINGS,  by  JOHN  MADDISON  MORTON. 

VOLUME   FOURTH. 

25.  VIRGINIUS,  a  Tragedy,  by  JAMES  SHERIDAN  KNOWLES. 

26.  THE  KING  OF  THE  COMMONS,  a  Play,  by  REV.  JAMES  WHITE. 

27.  LONDON  ASSURANCE,  a  Comedy,  by  D.  L.  BOURCICAULT. 

28.  THE  RENT-DAY,  a  Drama,  by  DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 

29.  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA,  a  Comedy,  by  WM.  SHAKSPEARS. 

30.  THE  JEALOUS  WIFE,  a  Comedy,  by  GEORGE  COLMAN  the  Elder. 

31.  THE  RIVALS,  a  Comedy,  by  RICHARD  BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN. 

32.  PERFECTION,  by  THOMAS  HAYNE*  BAYLY. 

VOLUME   FIFTH. 

33.  A  NEW  WAY  TO  PAY  OLD  DEBTS,  a  Comedy,  by  P.  MASSINGKR. 

34.  LOOK  BEFORE  YOU  LEAP,  a  Comedy,  by  GEORGE  W.  LOVELL. 

35.  KING  JOHN,  a  Tragedy,  by  WILLIAM  SHAKSPEARE. 

36.  THE  NERVOUS  MAN,  by  WILLIAM  BAYLE  BERNARD. 

37.  DAMON  AND  PYTHIAS,  a  Play,  by  JOHN  BANIM. 

38.  WILLIAM  TELL,  a  Play,  by  JAMES  SHERIDAN  KNOWLES. 

39.  SPEED  THE  PLOUGH,  a  Comedy,  by  THOMAS  MORTON. 

40.  FAINT  HEART  NEVER  WON  FAIR  LADY,  by  PLANCHE. 

The  following  will  be  issued  in  rapid  succession:  — 
BRUTUS,  a  Tragedy,  by  JOHN  HOWARD  PAYNE. 
ROMEO  AND  JULIET,  a  Tragedy,  by  WILLIAM  SHAKSPEARK. 
THE  ROAD  TO  RUIN,  a  Comedy,  by  THOMAS  HOLCROFT. 
DOUGLAS,  a  Tragedy,  by  Rev.  JOHN  HOME. 

THE  CLANDESTINE  MARRIAGE,  a  Comedy,  by  G.  COLMAN  the  Elder. 
SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER,  a  Comedy,  by  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 
JANE  SHORE,  a  Tragedy,  by  NICHOLAS  ROWE. 
EVERY  ONE  HAS  HIS  FAULT,  a  Comedy,  by  Mrs    INCHBALD. 
ISABELLA,  OR  THE  FATAL  MARRIAGE,  a  Tragedy,  by  SOUTHKRNE. 
THE  CRITIC,  an  Extravaganza,  by  RICHARD  BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN. 
THE  WAY  TO  GET  MARRIED,  a  Comedy,  by  THOMAS  MORTON. 
THE  BRIDAL,  a  Tragedy,  by  BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 
TOWN  AND  COUNTRY,  a  Comedy,  by  THOMAS  MORTON. 


WORKS    FOR    SALE    BY   JAMES    M  UN  ROE    AND    CO.          ill 

MACBETH,  a  Tragedy,  by  WILLIAM  SHAKSPEARE. 
RIENZI,  a  Tragedy,  by  Miss  MITFOHD. 
GISIPPUS,  by  ihe  Author  of  "THE  COLLEGIANS." 

With  many  others  of  standard  value  and  interest. 

From  the  National  Intelligencer. 

"  This  collection  of  plays  has  been  judiciously  selected  by  Mr.  Sar 
gent,  and  supplies  a  demand  that  has  been  answered  in  England,  to 
some  extent,  by  the  publications  of  Mrs.  Inchbald,  of  Oxberry,  and  of 
Cumberland.  It  possesses  this  advantage,  however,  over  all  other  col 
lections  of  the  kind,  that  it  admits  of  the  introduction  of  those  more 
recent  plays  which  are  excluded  by  copyright  from  the  English  series. 
These  plays  are  neatly  printed  on  a  fine  large  type,  and  in  a  convenient 
form.  Printed  in  numbers,  they  answer  a  convenient  purpose,  supply 
ing  the  casual  call  for  particular  plays,  which  arises  from  their  repre 
sentation  ;  and,  when  bound  in  volumes,  furnishing  a  collection  for  pri 
vate  and  public  libraries,  superior  to  any  other  extant" 

From  the  Philadelphia  Saturday  Courier. 

{t  Mr.  Sargent's  editorial  introductions  to  this  series  are  deeply  inter 
esting  dramatic  essays,  and  in  themselves  worth  double  the  price  of  each 
number." 

From  the  New  York  Albion. 

"  We  learn  that  managers  throughout  the  country  give  this  edition  of 
plays  a  preference  over  all  others.  It  is  well  and  accurately  got  up." 

From  the  Boston  Post. 

"  This  excellent  collection  of  plays,  under  the  editorship  and  proprie 
torship  of  Mr.  Epes  Sargent,  has,  we  learn,  turned  out  a  very  pros 
perous  enterprise.  Nearly  fifty  of  the  best  acting  plays  extant  have 
already  been  published,  and  the  series  will  be  extended  to  two  or  three 
hundred.  The  edition  is  adopted  now  by  all  our  principal  theatres,  and 
is  widely  sought  for  as  a  standard  work  for  public  and  private  libraries. 
We  do  recommend  all  who  wish  for  something  really  excellent,  to  pro 
cure  all  these  plays,  for  there  is  little  better  reading  in  all  our  literature 
than  can  be  found  among  them." 

The  "  MODERN  STANDARD  DRAMA  "  is  published  and  for  sale  by 
WILLIAM  TAYLOR   &  CO., 

No.  2  Astor  House,  New   York ; 

REDDING  &  Co.,  Boston;  ZIEBER  &  Co., Philadelphia;  J.  W.  COOK, 
Pittsburg;  AMOS  HEAD,  Charleston;  ROBINSON  &  JONES, Cincinnati ; 


IV  WORKS    FOR    SALE    BY    JAMES    MUNROE    AND    CO. 

M.  BOULLEMET,  Mobile  ;  J.  H.  PENTON,  Louisville  j  J.  C.  MORGAN 
and  JOHN   SLY,  ]\ew  Orleans. 

IO3  To  persons  remitting  One  Dollar,  (current  money,)  free  of  postage, 
Ten  Copies  of  any  number  or  numfjers  of  the  "  MODERN  STANDARD 
DUAMA  "  will  be  sent  by  mail. 


VELASCO, 

A     TRAGEDY,    IX     FIVE     ACTS, 
BY    EPES    SARGENT, 

THIRD    EDITION. 

JAMES  MUNROE  &,  Co.,  Boston,  and  WM.  TAYLOR  &  Co.,  New  York, 
Publishers. 


En  $ress. 

By  GREELEY  &  MC£LRATH,  New  York,  a  new,  revised,  and  greatly 
enlarged  edition  of 

THE   LIFE   OF   HENRY   CLAY, 

BY    EPES     SARGENT. 

Upwards  of  Fifty  Thousand  Copies  of  this  popular  work  have  been 
published  and  disposed  of;  and  in  consequence  of  the  continued  de 
mand,  the  publishers  will  speedily  put  to  press  a  new  and  greatly  im 
proved  edition,  for  which  the  author  has  for  some  time  been  engaged  in 
gathering  fresh  materials. 

From  the  Troy  Whig. 

"  This  is  the  best  biography  of  Mr.  Clay  yet  published.  In  the 
preparation  of  the  work,  the  author  has  had  access  to  the  most  authen 
tic  sources  of  information,  which  he  has  digested  in  a  manner  that  can 
not  fail  to  satisfy  the  reader." 

From  the  New  York  Tribune. 

"  Mr.  Sargent  has  had  unsurpassed  facilities  for  acquiring  materials, 
and  he  has  done  his  work  faithfully.  This  is  the  fullest  and  clearest  bi 
ography  of  Mr.  Clay  ever  published,  and  exhibits  him,  as  he  truly  is,  the 
Man  of  the  Age.  The  current  slanders  upon  him  are  met  and  tho 
roughly  refuted  by  the  facts  imbodied  in  this  Life  ;  and  we  hope  —  nay, 
we  are  sure  —  it  will  receive  a  wide  circulation." 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT- 

RENEWALS  ONLY-TEL.  NO.  642-3405 

This  book  is  due  on  the  ^ *£«***£  below.  <* 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immed          xalL 


LD2lA-60m-3,'70 
(N5382slO)476-A-32 


Geaeral  Library     . 
University  of  California 
Berkeley 


